Timed Out
by Polgana
Summary: Gary has a terrible accident that leaves him wondering if he can face tomorrow, let alone tomorrow's paper. Second in Series. Thanks to Vicky Jo for ideas, inspiration, and editing.
1. To Ride The Vortex

Timed Out  
By Polgana & Kyla  
  
". . . In this you have found your gift and I know you serve it with honor. I can tell you we are the messengers between Time and its Keeper. You, of all people, know how fragile life is. So, somewhere between the pages of our newspaper, Gary Hobson, find time to live it."  
  
With a sigh Gary stuffed the hand written note back into its envelope and into his pocket. He had lost count of how many times he had taken it out as he had slowly made his way back from Judge Romick's funeral. Poor Lindsey. She had loved her grandfather so much. It had been all he could do not to pull her into his arms and let her release her pent up tears like a flood. He knew they were there. Not just the few that had trickled down her cheeks as she tried to present a brave face to the other mourners. Inside her was a wellspring of grief that could never truly be capped, only covered with love and fond memories until it no longer consumed her every waking moment.  
  
Knowing what was in store for her, he had hesitated giving her the knife. She was so young and had been through so much! How could he put this on her? But, he hadn't. She had been chosen, probably long before he had pulled her back over that railing, by whatever powers governed the Paper. So, he had offered what little comfort he could, along with a tiny hint of a warning, and discharged his duty. His successor had a name. His own message to the 'heir apparent' was dutifully recorded and locked away. Lucius Snow's legacy once again tucked away for the future.  
  
". . .find time to live . . ."  
  
All around him had been people getting on with the business of living. A happy couple, laughing at some private joke as they pushed the stroller that held their own gift to the future. Across the street he saw a group of seniors practicing Tai Chi. They all seemed to be enjoying the bright sun and invigorating breeze. It really was a beautiful day.  
  
*******  
  
Gary entered the kitchen area through the back door. He had managed to take care of two more 'crises' on the way home, the last involving a boy, his dog, and an unscheduled dip into one of the canals. Soaked from head to toe, he decided a quick shower and change of clothes were definitely in order!   
  
"Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital and get checked out, Mr. Hobson?" the uniformed officer asked for about the third time in the last half-hour.  
  
"P-positive," Gary stammered as he handed back the emergency blanket. "I j-just need a r-really hot sh-shower, and I'll be f-fine. Th-thanks for the r-ride home."  
  
"The least we could do," the officer replied with a grin, "after the way you dived in after that kid. He would've been crushed between those two boats if not for your quick thinking."  
  
"J-just happened to be in the r-right p-place at the right t-time," Gary shrugged, trying to suppress the shivers that still wracked his body. Damn! That water had been cold! "If you d-don't mind, I hear m-my sh-shower calling me."  
  
An hour later, dressed in his most comfortable jeans, t-shirt, and a red plaid flannel shirt, Gary felt much more human, and able to face the world. On the way out the door, he grabbed his favorite jacket, the black leather bomber. He would leave it down in the office. Just in case. The paper had surprised him too many times to get complacent now.  
  
"Gary! I'm so glad you're here!" Marissa Clark sighed with relief as he pushed his way into the packed room. "Graham and Richard both called in sick, Robin hurt her ankle and had to be taken to the hospital, and we . . . are . . .swamped!"  
  
Mud-puddle green eyes took one look at the crowded bar and had to agree. There was not so much as an empty barstool. Vadim was rushing back and forth, trying to fill all the orders as they were shouted at him, but he was already seriously behind. His English was improving dramatically, but it was just not up to the confusion of having six things shouted to him at once. Gary wasn't too sure his own was, either.  
  
Without hesitation, Gary pitched in behind the bar; quickly getting the drink orders caught up. Then he strapped on a white apron, loaded up a tray and started waiting tables. Kelly was his only waitress tonight. He greeted each of his 'regulars' with a quick grin and a few quiet words in his soft southern drawl, laughed at their jokes, and listened attentively to their woes. He was the one to answer the phone when Robin called to let them know it was just a sprain. She would be off the ankle for only a few days. Relieved, Robin had been with McGinty's longer than Gary had owned it, he told her to take as long as she needed. "Your job will still be here," Gary joked. "No one else in their right mind would touch it!"  
  
The rest of the night passed in a blur. For the most part, the patrons had been well behaved and in a pretty jovial mood. A group of ladies at a table in the corner had made a few crude comments about the 'stud muffin' serving their drinks, but had generally behaved themselves. A few regulars made jokes about what an 'honor' it was to be served by the owner. He just shot them a shy smile and took their orders. There had been just the one fight over who was to drive between two guys who obviously shouldn't. Either of them. Gary had confiscated the car keys after they had broken a table, and possibly his jaw, and paid for the cab to take them both home. They could settle up the damages when they came back for the car.  
  
Finally, the last customer paid his tab and wished them a goodnight. Gary slumped against the inner door with an explosive sigh. Hallelujah! He couldn't remember the last time they had been this busy! Every bone in his body ached! Especially his jaw. Something cold was pressed into his hand. He looked down at the full ice bag, then up at Marissa's smiling face. "Thanks," he mumbled, placing the ice against his swollen jaw.   
  
"Thank you," Marissa returned. "I know you were already tired from this morning. You must be exhausted by now."  
  
"I'm okay." The weariness in Gary's voice belied his words. "I'll just finish closing up, take another shower and hit the sack."  
  
"You go on," his partner suggested. "I can close up."  
  
"I still have to replace that broken table," he replied with a cautious shake of his head. "And Kelly needs to get home, too. Neither one of you should be out this late alone." Marissa opened her mouth to argue. "Go on. I just have to dig one out from the basement. It won't take long. Vadim can help me carry it up in the morning."  
  
"You won't try to carry it up alone?"  
  
"Not if it's too heavy," Gary hedged.  
  
"Ga-ary?"  
  
"What if I have to run out first thing? I should make Vadim carry it up alone?"  
  
"The difference being . . .?"  
  
"I'll . . .leave it by the stairs and we'll worry about getting it up tomorrow?"  
  
Marissa patted him on the chest and gave him one of her dazzling smiles. "Good boy. We'll teach you how to delegate yet." Assured that her friend was not going to do anything careless, she let Kelly know that she was almost ready to go.   
  
********  
  
"Aachoo!"  
  
Gary stifled another sneeze as the dust began to settle. It had taken him longer than he had thought it would to find a suitable table. They really needed to get rid of some of the junk down here, he decided. There were a number of old tables, but most had been in almost as bad of a shape as the one he was replacing! He had finally found a nice one buried behind an old jukebox that had obviously seen better days, and three cases of sixty year old Scotch that he had not even known was down there. And it was Glenlivet! A real find! He would have to save that for a really special occasion!  
  
He finally wrestled the small table to the foot of the stairs. Suddenly, looking up at the steep rise of the stairs, Marissa's suggestion made really good sense. He was simply too tired to manhandle the solid oak table up that incline. In fact, he was sorely tempted to just pile up a bunch of dust covers he had seen, and sack out on the floor. The cat could wake him in the morning. Finally, however, the lure of the shower was too strong. With a sigh he dragged his weary body up the stairs. As he paused at the basement door, his sweat soaked shirt suddenly felt ice cold. He made a quick detour to grab his jacket and slip it on. His feet dragging in weariness, he made his way through the office, intent on nothing more strenuous than going up the stairs leading to his loft, his shower and, ultimately, to his bed. He reached out and flicked the light switch. He was startled by a flash/pop, then it was dark again. Damn! Always something! Wearily, Gary grasped the railing and gingerly felt his way up the steps, counting each one. A little trick he learned from having been being blinded for a couple of days. 'Amazing the things that you learn without realizing that you have,' he mused.   
  
Once in the loft, he flicked on the lights, then rummaged around until he had found the spare bulbs. This would only take a moment, and then he wouldn't have to worry about falling down unlit steps in the morning. For about the fiftieth time, he wished the contractors he had hired to replace the ancient wiring could have finished as quickly as the plumbers had. They had finished replacing the burst pipes weeks ago. While the main part of the building had been refitted well enough to reopen, some problem with the codes had kept the electricians from getting to the second floor. Or to the stairway. That had left him effectively with only the one 'temporary' work light over head. The one that had been there for several weeks. Now he didn't even have that to work with. 'Now, where was that step stool? Aha!'  
  
Gary set the stool almost directly under the fixture. One leg seemed a little unsteady, but it wasn't too bad. This would only take a second, anyway. He quickly unscrewed the burnt out bulb and tossed it into a wastebasket in the corner. As he was getting the new bulb in position, the stool wobbled. Whoa! Maybe he should let this . . . The leg of the stool facing the stairs buckled. Acting instinctively, Gary grabbed at the light fixture to stop himself from following the stool to the bottom of the stairs! He hung there for a moment, about four or five feet off the floor. An easy drop, he thought. No prob . . .the fixture lurched in his hands. Bare wires brushed against his hands, and it was as if a giant fist slammed into him. His whole body jerked as the electrical current caused every muscle to contract at once, swinging him in a violent arc as he was practically thrown down the stairwell by the force of his own muscle spasms! He landed sprawled face up on top of the stool that had, literally, been his downfall.   
  
Stunned, he tried to remain calm, assess the damage. He couldn't move. None of his muscles wanted to work. It even hurt to breathe. His left leg was buckled under him, and he felt wetness . . . Suddenly he was glad he couldn't see it. His back hurt where it lay across the top of the stool, but there was surprisingly little pain in his leg. Was that good or bad? And what about the lights dancing before his eyes? Pretty lights . . . Gary felt everything slipping away. Had he hit his head? Was that why everything seemed so . . .distant? Was he dying? Was this his fate? To die alone . . . in darkness? Had he escaped death in the old carpet store, only to have it find him here, in his own home?  
  
How long would it be before he might be found? If at all? What time did Marissa usually come in? Seven, maybe? What time was it now? He tried to raise his arm to look at his watch, but his arms wouldn't move.  
  
He felt . . .light . . .strange. He couldn't see, but he could feel the room spinning. Like a giant vortex, a black hole sucking his soul to oblivion . . .  
  
********  
  
Somewhere a bird was singing accompanied by a familiar scent. Roses? Who brought him roses? Did anyone else even know he liked roses? Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked around. He was . . . he wasn't in the hospital. Unless they had some new open-air therapy that he was previously unaware of. He was lying on bare ground. Really . . . soft . . .ground. He rolled off the mound of dirt and took a really good look.   
  
A grave! He had been lying on top of a fresh grave! How . . .? Who . . .? And how was he able to move now? Curious, he looked for the first time at the headstone. What he read there stunned him. He took several unsteady steps back before his wobbly legs gave out and he sat down with a 'thud'.   
  
'Gary Hobson  
Born: 9/17/1965  
Died: 5/15/1976  
Our precious, most beloved son,  
You will live on in our hearts forever.'  
  
His grave! He had been lying on top of his own grave! But, it hadn't happened! Lucius Snow had saved him! And, if he was . . .dead . . .how could he be here, looking down at his . . .?  
  
It was too much! Gary scrambled to his feet, unsure just what he was going to do, where he was going to go. He just knew he couldn't stay here! Pain shot up his left leg as he tried to put weight on it too fast, causing him to tumble to the ground once more. And his head hurt so much . . . making it so hard to think . . . The bright sunlight faded as he once again lost consciousness.  
  
********  
  
"Hey, pal. Mind telling me who you are? And what are you doing to my son's grave?"  
  
Dazed, Gary opened his eyes, looking up toward the all too familiar voice. Who . . .? He looked up into a pair of blue eyes he found disturbingly familiar. He felt like he should know the grim faced man kneeling over him; but he was so . . . young! Hair that should be streaked with gray, was almost as thick and dark as his own. This man could be no older than his early forties. Why did Gary feel that was wrong? He didn't know what to say. What to do.   
  
"I'm . . .I'm sorry," he finally managed. "I didn't mean to . . . I-I don't know how I got here. Or where 'here' is, Mr. . . ."  
  
"Hobson. Bernie to my friends." Bernie leaned closer to the distraught younger man. "Lemme take a look." He touched the back of Gary's head lightly, eliciting a painful gasp. "Thought so. You took a hell of a jolt, pal. Can you stand?"  
  
"W-with help," Gary admitted hesitantly. "M-my leg . . . it won't . . .I tried . . ." He waved a hand to indicate his current position.  
  
"Fall down go boom, huh?" Bernie nodded knowingly. "Well, you don't smell like a liquor store, or look like a junkie. Can you remember your name?"  
  
"G-Gary . . . Clark?" he offered looking around in confusion. What was he about to say? "I-I think I was . . .there was this . . . this accident."   
  
"Car accident?" Bernie suggested anxiously. "Was anyone else hurt?"  
  
"N-no, I was . . . alone," Gary assured him. "But . . .I can't . . .I don't know how I got here! This is . . . where?"  
  
"Hickory, Indiana according to the sign coming into town," the elder Hobson nodded. He pushed himself to his feet, reaching down to help Gary. "C'mon, pal. Let's get you to a doctor. Hospital's just down the road."  
  
Gary visibly paled at the suggestion, flinching away from Bernie's proffered hand. "I can't. I can't go to a . . . I can't pay. My . . . my wallet . . . I don't have . . ." Why couldn't he think? "My wallet, and my . . . my insurance cards. I-in the car . . . I think."  
  
"Not a problem," Bernie assured him. "The hospital is happy to work with ya on that. Let me take you to the emergency room and get you looked at."  
  
"N-no. Please, isn't there just s-someplace I can . . . lie down?" Gary pleaded. "I'm just . . . just a little tired."  
  
Bernie squatted back down next to the younger man. Even to his untrained eye the kid looked more than just tired. He looked confused, scared and on the brink of exhaustion. Gary. It chilled him that this stranger bore the same name as the son he had so recently buried. What chilled him even more, this odd, frightened man had his son's eyes. That same haunted look he had when he had just woken up from a nightmare, or was hurting so deep inside that no one could reach in to help him. Even the shape of his eyes . . . He shook his head with a sad sigh. Give it up, Bernard, he admonished himself. Your Gary is gone. There's no bringing him back. This Gary needs your help now.  
  
"My place isn't far from here," he finally decided. "With my . . . son . . . gone, and my . . . my wife in the hospital, I'm rattling around in that big ol' house like a marble in a tin can. Let me take you home with me and, if you aren't feeling better by tomorrow, we'll talk about the hospital then. Deal?"  
  
To his relief, the younger man just nodded; his eyes closed as if too tired to argue further. He finally accepted Bernie's hand. As they touched, Gary felt . . . something. Like an electric shock, only different. Looking into Bernie's eyes, he could see that the older man felt it too. What was going on? It was Bernie that shattered the moment by hauling Gary to his feet. It was awkward trying to keep most of his weight on his right leg, but with Bernie to lean on, he made it to the car and slid into the passenger seat with a sigh. God, he hurt! Every bone and muscle in his body was screaming at him.   
  
As Bernie started the car, Gary fought to stay awake. His eyes felt so heavy; and his head kept spinning like a top. He knew he needed to stay awake, but couldn't think why.  
  
"Um, what . . .what was he like?" he asked. Keep talking, he thought. Keep someone talking. Stay with it. "Your son, I mean. Was he a . . . a good kid?"  
  
"He was a great kid," Bernie sighed. "Big hearted, hard working, always looking out for the smaller kids. At school, I mean. He was the only . . .He, um, he died in Chicago a few weeks ago. There was this essay contest that he was a finalist in. Lois, that's my . . .my wife, she took him to Chicago for the finals. They were at the 'Sun-Times', getting ready to read their essays on TV. There was this little girl that G-Gary had gotten to know." He smiled wistfully at the thought. "The kid took after his old man there. He could charm the honey from the bees. Anyway, her essay was stolen. Gary had an idea who did it. This kid from Barrington had stolen it. Gary chased him to get it back. The little brat admitted all this later . . . after it was too late. Anyway, he confronted the kid; there was a fight; at which point the officials and Lois caught up with them. The other kid immediately accuses Gary of being the thief. Now, poor Gary, he always got tongue-tied when he was excited. And there were all these adults standing over him, and his mom. Poor kid never got a chance to defend himself. He was so embarrassed, he ran off to hide in the men's room. His mom couldn't follow him in there, so she went to look for someone to go in and bring him out. The next thing she knew, there was this . . . W-witnesses said he ran out of the men's room like the devil was chasing him. He r-ran out the door towards the street . . . and tripped on the curb . . ."  
  
"I'm sorry," Gary mumbled sadly. "You must've been . . .I mean I would've been . . ."  
  
"Yeah," Bernie replied tersely. "Well, we all took it pretty hard. I mean, he wasn't even eleven yet! Although the papers said he was. And Lois . . . Man, she really took it hard! Her fault for not having more faith in him, she said. She collapsed at the funeral. J-just fell apart at the seams. Doctors are calling it 'nervous collapse'. I ask you, what's the difference between 'collapse' and 'breakdown'? Can you tell me that?" He glanced over at his way too quiet passenger. "Gar? You still with me, pal?"  
  
"Hmm? Yeah, yeah, I'm still . . .So, where is she? What hospital, I mean."  
  
The kid was about dead on his feet, Bernie decided. "The same one I was gonna take you to," he shrugged. "I still think you should see a doctor yourself."  
  
Gary made an effort to sit up straighter, seem more alert. He couldn't let . . . Bernie see how bad he really felt. He didn't understand it himself; but he felt that he could not risk being confined right now.  
  
"I'm okay," he lied. "Just a little banged up. Um, do you . . . do you have any other . . . I mean he . . ."  
  
"No," Bernie sighed wistfully. "That's what makes it so hard, I guess. Gary was the only one we were meant to have. Not that we didn't try, though," he added with a sad smile. "The trying was kinda fun."  
  
His pallor only made the blush that crept up Gary's face all the more evident. He couldn't believe Bernie had said something like that to a total stranger! Then again, he couldn't understand a lot of things right now. Like why Bernie's sad tale sounded so familiar.  
  
"Here we are," Bernie said cheerfully as they turned down a familiar drive.   
  
Gary looked up at the house. It seemed . . . wrong somehow. Images of what he saw now kept getting overlaid with images of . . .something. A place that was almost, but not quite the same. Subtle changes that seemed important in some way that he couldn't quite find the words to define. Where was the trellis he and Dad . . . ? No, that wasn't here. Was it? The old trellis still stood against the house; slats broken or missing, sadly in need of paint. Why did he remember tearing that same trellis down and helping . . . someone . . . Bernie? replace it. He could even remember the feel of the wood, the weight of the hammer, even the way the ladder shook . . .He winced as a knife blade of pain sliced through the back of his head and straight to the spot directly between his eyes. There were other things, too. None so memorable as that trellis, nor as obvious; but jarringly significant all the same.  
  
"C'mon, Gar," the elder Hobson urged as he opened the car door for his 'guest', "Let's get you inside and wrap you around a plate of my special gnocchi. Guaranteed to be the best you ever tasted."  
  
Gary's stomach gave a lurch at just the thought of food. His skull felt as if it was about to burst open from the pain! He slowly shook his head.   
  
"Please, just . . . could I just have something to drink?" he pleaded in a pained voice. His thoughts kept scattering like leaves in a windstorm. One moment he knew who he was, who Bernie was. Knew what the connection was between them. The next . . . What was going on? If only he could think!  
  
As Bernie helped him from the car, Gary thought he saw something . . . someone . . . out of the corner of his eye. Just a flash of orange and a glimpse of . . . what? He winced as he turned his head a little too quickly, trying to get a better look at . . . nothing. He could have sworn . . .   
  
"You got a cat?" he asked in a strained voice. Why did he dread the answer?  
  
"A cat? No. Why?"  
  
"Thought I just saw . . . Must belong to the kid," Gary murmured vaguely.   
  
"What kid?" Bernie asked, looking around hurriedly. "If it's that Whittaker kid lookin' to mess up my green house again . . ."  
  
Gary just gave him a strained smile and shook his head. "J-just some kid," he sighed. He needed to sit down . . .now. "Must've ducked . . . ducked around the corner there." He waved his right hand in the general area of the porch.  
  
Casting a worried glance towards his greenhouse, Bernie slipped an arm around Gary's waist. It was all the kid could do to hobble up the steps. 'Maybe I should consider putting in a ramp?' he thought. 'Now, where did that come from? Why would I need a ramp?' Finally, he was able to lower his charge into an overstuffed armchair. The younger man sank into the cushions with a sigh of relief. He'd made it! And without falling flat on his face.   
  
"What'll ya have?" Bernie asked as he ducked into the kitchen. "We got ice tea, Pepsi and water. Oh! and grape juice. Take your pick."  
  
"Tea?"  
  
"Comin' up.   
  
As Bernie set about putting ice in glasses, Gary let his tired, heavy lidded eyes drift around the room. It was obvious that it had been decorated with a mother's touch. The furniture was all sturdy and comfortable; usually decorated with a throw of some type. Small rugs covered high traffic areas. And pictures lined the mantle along with the prerequisite candlesticks and clock. From where he sat, he could barely make out any details, but they all seemed to show either Bernie or some blonde woman with a small, dark-haired boy. One showed all three of them standing in front of a large, silver vehicle. A camper, maybe? Gary just couldn't tell.   
  
Something moved just in the corner of his eye. Turning his head quickly, Gary winced as the sudden movement shot pain into the area behind his eyes, causing the room to sway. He pressed the heels of his hands tightly against his temples, closing his eyes in a futile effort to shut out the pain. What was it he had seen? A cat? He was pretty sure that was what he had seen, but . . . hadn't Bernie said that they didn't have a cat?  
  
Gary raised his head slightly as the pain eased to bearable levels. Why was he here? Why was he so sure there was a 'why'? Also, how had he gotten here? There had been no car accident. For some reason he was sure of that! He was equally sure that he had not walked to the cemetery.   
  
There it was again! That flash of orange close to the floor. He lurched to his feet, almost toppling over in his haste. That kid! He was in the house! Gary just caught a glimpse of him as he disappeared into the next room; but he was sure it was the same child he had seen while getting out of the car. A boy of about eleven years, with dark hair and sad eyes. He took another clumsy step towards the door the boy and cat had vanished through. Agony seared his left leg as he tried to put weight on it. Gary saved himself from a nasty fall by grabbing the nearest support; the mantle. Grasping fingers brushed against the picture of the Hobson family, knocking it off the shelf. He snatched it as it fell in a move so quick, he surprised even himself. Balancing on his good leg, Gary set the photo back in its rightful place. As he did so, he got a closer look at the three smiling figures.  
  
"Here we go," Bernie exclaimed cheerfully as he carried in a small tray loaded with two glasses of ice and a large pitcher of tea. "Sorry it took so long. Had to find the tray. Lois'll kill me if she comes back to find water stains . . ." He noticed Gary standing frozen by the fireplace, a strange look on his pale features. "What's wrong?"  
  
"The . . . the boy," Gary whispered. "In the p-pictures. Who is he?"  
  
" 'Scuse me?"  
  
"Who's the b-boy?" Gary repeated in a stronger voice. "The-the one in all the pictures."  
  
Bernie stepped up next to him and gently took down the very picture he had knocked over. Smiling sadly back at that moment of joy which, now, could never be recaptured, he replied. "That's my Gary. My son."  
  
The walls wavered at the edge of his vision as Gary's gaze locked on the photo. He suddenly found himself struggling to breathe. "That can't be!" he whispered. "It can't . . .Th-that's him!"  
  
"Him who?" Bernie asked, perplexed. "What are you talkin' about?"  
  
"The kid . . . outside," the younger man tried to explain. His breath was starting to come in ragged little gasps. "I saw . . .saw him again . . . in here! W-with the . . .the cat!"  
  
"What cat? Kiddo, you're not making any sense!" He quickly set the picture back down and grabbed Gary's arm. "Look, you just have a seat back over here. I'm callin' the hospital. You must've hit your head harder than you thought."  
  
Gary jerked his arm out of Bernie's grasp, his eyes filled with an angry, desperate look. "I'm not crazy! I know . . .I know what I saw!"  
  
Confused, Bernie tried to placate his agitated guest. 'Christ! What have I gotten into?' he thought to himself. 'The guy is losin' it!'   
  
"It's okay, Gar," he said in his most soothing voice. "It's okay. You've been through all kinds of . . .what . . . I don't know. And you've had a pretty hard knock to the old coconut to boot. It's only natural that things won't make sense for a while." As he spoke he was keeping pace with Gary as the younger man stumbled one painful step at a time backward, toward the corner by the fireplace. The anger in his eyes was being replaced by a silent plea. 'The kid's so scared he can't think straight.'  
  
The moment Gary's back hit the wall, his legs gave out. With a quiet sob, he slowly slid to the floor, burying his face in his hands. Rocking slowly back and forth, he kept repeating the same phrase in a low, heart-wrenching moan. "I'm not crazy. I'm not." Dimly, he was aware that Bernie had left the room. He could hear him speaking to someone else. Was he calling the hospital? Gary didn't care anymore. None of this made any sense! Sobbing quietly to himself, he curled into a ball, laying his head on his arms. "Please, God! Just let me wake up!" he prayed as reality left him behind once more.  
  
  
****************  
  
There were no birds this time; no wind stirring the branches of nearby trees. Just the muffled sound of voices beyond a closed door. Instead of cold bare ground, he was laying on clean sheets with a light blanket drawn almost to his chin. He tried to turn over only to find that padded leather straps secured his arms. Gary felt a moment of panic at this discovery. 'They've locked me up!' he thought in despair, fighting back the tears he felt welling in his eyes. "They think I'm . . .I'm crazy!" he murmured.  
  
"Not at all, Kiddo."  
  
Gary slowly turned his head until he could see who had spoken. Bernie was just laying aside the newspaper he had been reading while waiting for his strange charge to wake up. The younger man tugged ineffectively at the restraints.   
  
"Then why this?" he asked, his voice not much more than a strained whisper.  
  
"You kept pulling out your tubes," Bernie told him. "Don't you remember? By the time the ambulance got there, you were pretty much out of it. Delirious. You were hot as a pistol, too. The docs' think that's what caused you to hallucinate. You know; fever dreams. They've been pumping you full of fluids and medicine to bring down your temperature, and the nurses have all taken turns giving you alcohol rubs." He couldn't suppress a wicked grin at the flush that crept up Gary's cheeks at this disclosure. "You're real popular with the nurses, Gar. They keep drawing lots to see who gets to take care of you."  
  
Flustered, Gary turned his scarlet face towards the window. "H-how long . . .how long have I, um, have I been here?"   
  
"Just a little over two days. Your fever finally broke early this morning." The older man shifted uncomfortably in the hard, vinyl covered chair. "You . . . um, you said some pretty strange things while you were . . .Ahm, who's Marissa?"  
  
Startled, Gary looked back at the older man. "M-Marissa?"  
  
"Yeah. You kept asking for her and some guy named Chuck. There was something in some paper you needed help with," he reported with a puzzled frown. "You also called for your parents."  
  
"I-I did?"  
  
"Ye-ah," Bernie replied, hunching forward, his voice suddenly very low. "I asked you who they were, and where to find them." He peered closely into Gary's mud-puddle green eyes. His son's eyes. "Do you know who you are now?"  
  
Puzzled, Gary began to wonder which of them was crazy. What did he mean by that?   
  
"You knew things, Gar," Bernie reminded him. "Things that only my Gary could've known. About the trellis. We were gonna fix that up as a surprise for his mom. Right after they got back from the contest. And the teacher he had a crush on in the third grade. He was too embarrassed to tell anyone but me about that!"  
  
Gary fought down a feeling of panic and confusion as Bernie's words tugged at his fragmented memory. It was impossible! Gary Hobson was just a child! A dead child! He was an adult, in his thirty's! How could this man possibly think . . .?  
  
"Miss Pritchet," he murmured. "Her name was Miss Angela Pritchet." Dazed he tilted his head to meet Bernie's expectant gaze. "How . . . how could I know that? What's wrong with me?"  
  
"Physically, you've got the docs stumped on that," the older man sighed. "Your leg has swollen to almost twice its size, but there's no injury they can find. Certainly nothing to cause a blood clot or anything like that. That goose egg at the back of your head could explain the amnesia and confusion. But, they don't know what caused your sudden fever and delirium." He leaned in a little closer. "What I don't . . . can't understand is, how can you be my son? He's . . . gone. Forever. We'll never get the chance to know the man he might've become. Unless that man is you!"  
  
The look Gary gave Bernie was a bewildered mix of panic and pain. The strained smile was a poor effort to cover the fear that was so evident in the younger man's eyes.  
  
"I'm not sure who's crazier," he mumbled. "You or me." He gave the straps another weak tug. "Could you . . . please?"  
  
"Not 'til you promise not to yank anymore tubes," Bernie grimaced. "You had blood everywhere!"  
  
"Just the one . . ." he gestured helplessly to the area below his waist, his face a study in scarlet.  
  
"I . . . um, I think I better get the nurse," the older man gulped, not bothering to conceal his discomfort. "That's the one you yanked before."  
  
Gary's eyes grew wide as Bernie's departing words sank in. "Ho, boy."   
  
**********  
  
Gary had to submit to a few more indignities before the doctors would allow that particular tube to be removed. A process that proved highly embarrassing on its own. Not to mention painful. Finally, he was allowed up in a wheelchair. He squirmed uncomfortably as he tried to find a better position, trying not to think about what was throbbing, or why.   
  
"I've been telling Lois about you, " Bernie was saying as he pushed Gary down the hall. "Not what I think I know. Just what you've been able to tell me, the kind of guy you seem to be. That kinda stuff."  
  
"What did she-she say?" Gary asked nervously. "Wh . . . when you told her."  
  
"Nothin'," Bernie sighed. "She hasn't said a word since they brought her here. I keep tryin' to get 'em to let me take her home. But . . . the docs think she might try to hurt herself. I think they're full of it. Normally, Lois is one of the steadiest, most reliable people in the world. Given time to adjust, there isn't anything she can't handle. This just . . . knocked the wind out of her. She'll get better. She has to," he added almost under his breath.  
  
"Is that where we're going?"   
  
"Of course!" the older man smiled. "I always take my new friends to meet the little woman!"  
  
*********  
  
Gary's first glimpse of Lois Hobson was of a woman in the last stages of despair. She was sitting in an armchair, staring blankly out the window of her room. He had to wonder if she knew how pretty a day it was. Or if she could hear the birds singing, if her hollow-eyed stare could see how cheerfully they played in the tree just beyond the glass. Parking the wheelchair just far enough inside the door so as not to block traffic, Bernie walked casually around the bed to his wife's side.  
  
"Hi, Honey," he said as he tenderly kissed her cheek. "I've brought someone to meet you. Remember that fella I was tellin' you about? The one I found . . . found at . . . beside Gary? Guess what? His name is Gary too? Wonder if his folks were like us, huh? Wouldn't that be a kick in the head? C'mon, Lois. Don't be rude. Talk to me," he pleaded, tears welling up in his eyes.  
  
"M-maybe if we just . . . talk," Gary suggested. "We could just . . . you know . . . toss a few subjects around. See if we hit on something she finds interesting enough to join in? How . . . how did you meet?"  
  
"We grew up together," Bernie smiled, taking his silent wife's hand, gently stroking it as he talked. Lois gave no sign that she even noticed. "She was the nosey little tagalong next door. Until high school. Then . . . she blossomed into this . . . All of a sudden, I noticed how beautiful she was. Not fashion model beautiful or goddess on a pedestal . . . Real beauty. Right down to the bone gorgeous! The kind you want to hold onto forever. I knew then that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. I wanted to settle down, raise a family. You know the 'Dream'. But, I never dared to hope that she'd settle for a mug like me."  
  
"So, how . . . how did you end up married?" Gary asked, rubbing his head distractedly. He was beginning to feel a little . . . strange.   
  
Bernie gave a little chuckle as he straightened Lois' lap robe, laying her hand back into her lap. "As usual, she was way ahead of me," he replied. "One night, we were at the drive in. For the life of me, I can't remember what movie we'd gone to see. But, I'll never forget the kiss she laid on me. Or what it led to. A few months later, we had to get married. All because of that one moment of passion . . ."  
  
" . . .in the back of a Camarro," Gary whispered, his face pale. He couldn't breathe. His pulse raced as memories came flooding back. A woman standing in front of him. Telling him how badly she wanted grandchildren. Letting it slip that he had not been planned, but was a joyful 'accident'. "All because of one moment's passion in the back of a Camarro," he repeated breathlessly. Neither he nor Bernie saw the peculiar look that appeared on Lois Hobson's face.   
  
"Camarro? It wasn't a Camarro! That's the same mistake Lois . . ."  
  
" G-Gary?" Her voice was little more than a whisper as she turned in her seat.  
  
Awkwardly, Gary tried to maneuver the wheelchair around the end of the bed. All the while saying, "I'm here, Mom. I'm right here!" In his haste, he got the front wheel caught under the corner. Frustrated, he pushed himself out of the chair, forgetting about his injured leg. The chair shot backwards as he tumbled to the floor . . . only to be caught by two pairs of hands. The charge that went through all three of them was like a circuit being closed. Gary pulled his parents close to him as they all sank into a tearful heap. He remembered everything, who he was, what he was, and most importantly, where he was. He was Gary Hobson, son of Bernie and Lois Hobson, and he had come home!  
  
*****************  
  
"It's like one of those science fiction movies," Lois was saying as they drove home. "You must have been caught in a . . .a time warp or something!"  
  
"A time warp? On my stairway?" Gary asked, giving her a strange look. "That just so happened to bring me to my own . . . my own grave? That's a little bizarre, Mom, even for me." He pulled her in closer; still unable to believe it was really her. That any of this was actually happening. The doctors had been stunned at her 'miraculous' recovery. And dismayed at him for trying to walk on a leg that looked like he had tried to stuff a watermelon down his pants legs. Except that he wasn't wearing pants at the time. They had wanted to keep them both for further testing, but they had all been adamant about going home. That had been a problem for Gary, at first. Because of the mysterious nature of his illness, the doctors had been reluctant to release him without supervision. Bernie and Lois had assured them that he would be well 'looked after'.  
  
"Then can you explain it?" she challenged him. "You're the one that's going to be getting tomorrow's newspaper, in twenty years. And trying to keep it a secret from your own mother, I might add! You're the one this is happening to. So tell us what you think!"  
  
"I'm not sure what to think," Gary admitted. "Seeing mys . . .my ghost, and the cat . . .I can't help but think that the paper is involved somehow. Stuff like this has happened before, but never . . . I mean, I was always in pretty good shape physically, even if I was confused as hell. Sorry, Mom. Confused as heck. And I never lost so much of my memory before. There's just so much to this I still don't understand."  
  
Lois snuggled her head into her grown son's chest with a happy sigh. "Well, one thing I know. My son would have grown into a wonderful, compassionate, and handsome man. A hero in every sense of the word. I always knew you were special," she added with a little catch in her voice. "I just never knew how right I was to feel that way."  
  
"Hey! I'm gettin' jealous up here," Bernie called from the front seat. "Save a little of that cuddling for your chauffeur," he teased.   
  
"Anything you say . . . Dad," Gary replied with an easy grin. He could almost forget the pain in his leg; he had gotten so used to it by now. And the pain in his head hadn't bothered him for over an hour. It would be so easy to get caught up in the moment. To forget that he was here for a reason, even if he hadn't the slightest clue what it was.  
  
**********  
  
Bernie pulled the car up as close to the front door as he could. Gary was still a little clumsy on the crutches he was supposed to be using to get around on until his leg healed. If it ever did. It took him a moment to get his balance on the unwieldy props. While his mom hovered beside him, he managed a few awkward steps.   
  
"This is the pits," he complained. "And I don't understand why this is so hard."  
  
"You're just not used to them, Gary," Lois said encouragingly. "It'll take you a little time to get the hang of it."  
  
"I've been on crutches before, Mom," Gary grunted. "It wasn't this hard. This right leg just doesn't want, unh! to get with the . . . program." They were finally at the first step. By the time he had maneuvered his way onto the porch, Gary was bathed in a fine sheen of sweat. 'Lord, help me!' he prayed. 'I'll never make it at this . . .'  
  
"Mrowwr!"  
  
Gary froze at the familiar sound, his eyes widening in shock. His mother, just one step behind, almost knocked him over. Concerned, she peeked around her son to see what was blocking his way.   
  
"Is that . . .?"  
  
"In the flesh," he murmured woodenly. "Mom, meet the cat. Cat, this is my mother. Now, could you please let us by?"  
  
Lois Hobson stepped around her son, giving him an exasperated look. "Don't be silly, Gary. He can't understand what . . ."  
  
The cat daintily stepped to one side, as if to let them pass. Stunned, Lois gave the small feline a closer look. The look she got in return conveyed an intelligence that seemed too vast for such a tiny body. Then she saw what the cat had been sitting on. Slowly, she reached down and picked up a copy of the Chicago Sun-Times. She folded the paper and stuck it in her pocket, much as Gary would do twenty years later.   
  
"Let's get you inside," she said, taking him by the arm. By the time she had him settled in the same armchair as before, Bernie had parked the car and burst through the back door with his usual energy and high spirits.  
  
"You two just stay seated," he commanded happily. "I'll whip up a dinner that'll make you forget all about that stuff they tried to pass off as food at the . . .What's wrong?"  
  
Gary was leaning back in the chair, his eyes closed. Lois was standing by the mantle, a newspaper clutched in her white-knuckled hands. "This isn't right," she said in a pain filled whisper. "We just found each other. We should have more time!"  
  
"Time's what it's all about, Mom," Gary sighed. "I have to stop whatever needs to be stopped. Why is it coming to me now, though? It should still be going to Lucius Snow!"  
  
"Who?" Bernie and Lois cried together. Both of them were staring at Gary like he had sprouted a third eye.   
  
"Lucius Snow," he repeated, puzzled by their intense reaction. "A typesetter at the Sun-Times. He's been getting the paper for about twenty years or so himself by now. Why? What's the matter?"  
  
Lois snatched open the paper as everything fell into place in her mind. It all made sense. In a sick, horrifying way, it made sense. Wordlessly, she handed the paper to Bernie. He read the date, then the headline. 'Oh my God!' he thought. 'Oh my dear God!'  
  
Puzzled, Gary reached up and plucked the paper from his father's numb fingers. He expected the date to be some time in June of '76. He had lost track of the days. And, from his parents' reaction, the headline must be some catastrophic event. Gary was totally unprepared for what he read.   
  
The date was November 23rd, 1963. The headline was about the assassination of President Kennedy. The story went on to describe the events of that fateful day in lurid detail, culminating in the recovery of the body of the assassin in the book depository. The body? But Oswald was arrested! He had been found alive, only to be shot and killed later by Jack Ruby! Puzzled, he read on. Secret Service agent J. T. Marley had accosted the assassin at the scene, shooting him once through the heart. A plane ticket identified the assassin as . . . Lucius Snow!  
  
"That's . . . that's wrong," Gary told them in a strained whisper. "That's all wrong! Lucius Snow went to Dallas to stop Lee Harvey Oswald! I know that! He almost succeeded, too! Only he didn't know that . . . Marley! Marley framed Snow when Oswald ran! He had to have a patsy to take the blame, so he killed Snow when he showed up to . . . That's why . . . Snow wasn't there to save me, and I died. Because I died, there won't be anyone to stop Marley in '96. He'll . . . he'll do it again. The son of a b . . ." He shot his mother an apologetic look.   
  
"I have to go back further," he told her. "I have to go back to the day of the Kennedy assassination and keep Snow from getting killed. If I don't . . ."  
  
"If you don't . . . what?" Bernie asked. "You stay here with us? Would that be so bad?"  
  
"No," Gary sighed. "Not if it was that simple. But, it's not. It never is. If I don't stop Lucius Snow from going into that room at the book depository . . . if he . . . if he dies, I die. For good."  
  
************  
  
Later that night, Gary lay stretched out on the sofa, his leg propped on a couple of extra pillows. Lois and Bernie had wanted him to take their Gary's room, but one look at the stairs had convinced him that it was not a good idea. He had tried to convince them to take him back to the cemetery tonight, but they wouldn't hear of it. Tomorrow would be soon enough, they had pleaded. What could one more day hurt?  
  
Gary had not had the heart to tell them everything he had remembered. He didn't think it would do them any good to know how serious his predicament really was. However he had come to be here, he was also lying on the stairs leading up to his loft. And he was dying. Somehow, he knew his time to act was growing short. Just walking, even with the aid of the crutches, was becoming more and more difficult. He was slowly losing sensation in his legs. How long before he couldn't function at all?  
  
He stared at the ceiling as he considered what he knew he must do. It wouldn't be fair to leave without some kind of good-bye. Nor did he think they could ever bring themselves to do what he was asking. It would be like watching him die a second time. Yet, if he succeeded, he wouldn't have died the first time! Trying to figure it out was giving him another headache.   
  
Finally, his decision made, Gary painfully levered himself to a sitting position. It took him a few minutes to struggle into his clothes and, ultimately, to his feet. Laboriously, he made his way to Bernie's study and eased himself into the chair at the desk and flicked on the lamp. 'Now where did Mom keep . . .' He finally found some stationery and a pen. After several minutes he sat back to read over what he had written.  
  
'Dear Mom and Dad;   
  
I'm sorry I have to leave so soon, but I really have no choice. If I don't get started on the next phase of this journey tonight, I won't have the strength left to complete it. It I don't complete it, I will die. I know that isn't what you want. Leaving like this is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. On the plus side though, if I succeed, you will have no memory of any of this, because your Gary will not have died. And we would never have met. Don't bother trying to figure it out. This is the third time I've done something like this and I still don't have a clue as to how it works. For the last twenty-four years, I have been living on 'borrowed' time. It may very well be that my 'note' has come due.  
  
I know, now, that my birth was not in your plans. That you could have taken the 'easy' way out, but chose, instead, to have me and to love me. For that, I thank you. Just know that your son loves you, has always loved you, and will continue to love you even if Death wins this round.  
  
Your loving son,   
Now and forever,  
Gary'  
  
He folded the note carefully and stuffed it into an envelope. Pulling himself up on his crutches with considerable effort, he struggled into the living room where he placed the message in front of the picture of the three of them. Seeing it there, with just the words 'Mom and Dad' scrawled on the front, reminded him of another time he had done something very similar. He had been sure he was going to die then, too. It turned out to be a test. Whether of his resolve to continue, or simply his will to live, he didn't know. Later, he didn't even care. He passed. That was all that had mattered then. And he had found the strength and the will to continue in his mission to save the world. One life at a time.  
  
The car keys hung on a hook by the back door, as they always had for as long as he could remember. Getting out the back door and into the garage without making a racket was a miracle all in itself, but make it he did. Opening the garage door wasn't too hard. Actually getting into the car, now that. . . Gary finally managed to get his swollen leg to bend enough to fit under the dashboard. After that, things were a lot easier. All he had to do was start the car and back it out onto the street. Riiigghht!  
  
There was no other traffic to worry about. In a small, rural town like Hickory, most people were in bed, or at least off the street well before midnight. Gary pretty much had the roads to himself. His only real problem was that it was becoming increasingly difficult to move either leg. Gary drove carefully, just a little under the speed limit. Still, he watched the road nervously. His reaction time was dangerously slow. He ran a couple of stop signs before he learned to slow down well in advance.   
  
Because he was concentrating so hard on the road and his driving, Gary failed to notice the police cruiser parked just off the road.   
  
"Hey! Isn't that Bernie Hobson's car?" the officer behind the wheel asked his partner.  
  
The older officer tried to get a better look at the slow moving car. "I think you're right, Cliff. But, that's not Bernie driving. He's being way too careful for that to be Bernie Hobson! Let's just follow him 'til I check it out." He reached for his mike and keyed the transmitter. "Chloe, this is Dave. Could you call Bernie Hobson and have him check his garage? We think someone may have taken his pride and joy for a little midnight ride."  
  
"Roger that, Dave." A few minutes later the dispatcher came back. "His car is missing all right, Dave," Chloe told him. "But he says he knows the man who's driving. Wants to know if you can just bring him home. And to please be gentle. The guy just got out of the hospital today and has trouble walking."  
  
"Thanks, Chloe," Dave responded. "We'll play nice." He turned to his partner. "You heard the lady, Cliff. Let's make our presence known."  
  
With a lopsided grin, Cliff edged the cruiser up until the two vehicles were almost touching, then he gave a quick burst on the siren and flashed his lights.  
  
Startled, Gary flicked a glance at the rear view mirror. 'No!' he thought grimly. 'Not now! I don't have time for this!' Casting caution out the window, he slammed down on the accelerator. With a squeal of tires, the car leaped forward, catching the officers by surprise. He managed to get almost half a mile ahead before they recovered and sped after him.   
  
The next few minutes were a blur in more than one sense of the word. Streetlights flashed by as the speedometer needle climbed. He took corners faster than he ever dreamed he could, simply because he was not able to move his foot fast enough to slow down until it was almost too late. Then he had to put everything he had into maintaining control. Finally, he saw the archway that marked the entrance to the cemetery. As quickly as he saw it, he was already past. Taking the narrow lanes way too fast, Gary finally spotted his destination. 'His' grave was under that huge oak tree. Fortunately, there were no obstacles between the curb and the gravesite. He would have been reluctant to drive over someone else's resting-place.   
  
The officer's parked their cruiser at the curb as Gary finally halted the car. They watched patiently as he struggled out of the vehicle and adjusted the crutches under his arms, falling twice in the process. Evidently, they thought to let him wear himself out, then take him without a struggle. 'Think again!'  
  
"What is he up to?" Cliff wondered aloud. "Man, he must be on some powerful kinda drugs to do something this crazy."  
  
"Either that," Dave agreed, "or he's just plain crazy. Let's round him up and get him home."  
  
Gary was ready to weep with frustration. It was all he could do to drag himself one agonizing step at a time to the beckoning mound. His legs were almost useless. Had he waited too long? What if he couldn't move at all when he got . . . wherever he had to go. Fortunately, the two officers didn't seem to think he was going anywhere. As he hunched along the few feet to the grave, they took their time getting out of the cruiser, strolling almost casually to catch up with him. Just another two feet and he could fall the rest of the way! 'C'mon!' he told himself angrily. 'You can do this! One more . . .!' The right crutch snagged on a root, sending Gary sprawling . . .  
  
. . . right on top of the grave! As Dave and Cliff watched in amazement, the man they had thought to be such an easy collar just seconds before, seemed to slowly dissolve into the small mound that covered the body of little Gary Hobson. At least . . . in this reality.  
  
*****************  
  
Stunned, the two officers watched as their quarry seemed to . . . vanish into the grave of the Hobson child. Cautiously they approached the last place they had seen the fleeing man. Except for a slight indentation that looked vaguely man-shaped, there was no sign that he had ever existed.  
  
"So . . .ahm, h-how do you want to report this, Dave?" Cliff stammered nervously.  
  
The older officer turned to give Cliff a look that seriously questioned his sanity. "It never happened," he replied. "Got that? None of this," he added, waving a hand at the car and the grave, "ever . . .happened. The guy . . . gave us the slip. We found the car here at the cemetery, but no sign of the driver. Got it?"  
  
"B-but Dave . . .!"  
  
"You want a psych evaluation on your record? 'Cause they'll have us talkin' to the couch jockeys for months if we even try to tell them . . . whatever it was we saw. No, we just take the car in and keep our mouths shut. Trust me, it's safer that way."  
  
******************  
  
It was different this time. There was the now familiar feeling of vertigo and of endlessly falling into nothingness. But, he remained aware through the whole ordeal. Aware of the tumbling, gut churning ride, the flashes of light and darkness, like day and night rolling backwards at incredible speed. Clinging desperately to the crutches, he feared that he would fall forever.   
  
The wild ride ended with a bone jarring thump. Dazed, Gary fought to draw air into his tortured body, at the same time trying to get a sense of his surroundings. He could hear voices in the distance. Lots of excited, laughing, chattering, expectant voices. He was bathed in warmth as he lay on something soft. Running his hand over the surface upon which he lay, he felt close-cropped grass. Finally daring to open his eyes, Gary squinted up into a sun almost at its zenith. Not quite noon, he judged groggily. Slowly raising his head to look around, he found himself near the top of a grassy swathe sloping down to a paved road. There were several small groups of people between him and the road and a row of low growing bushes just above him.  
  
As Gary struggled to sit up, he also tried to marshal his scattered wits. 'This has to be Dallas,' he thought. 'Please God, let me have made it in time!'   
  
Trying to get his legs under him on the sloping ground was made twice as difficult by his continued dependence on the crutches he had managed to bring with him to this time. Just exactly how he had managed that, he refused to even consider thinking about. He was way past caring about the 'how' or the 'why'. It was all he could do to deal with the 'what'. Right now, that meant stopping Lucius Snow from being framed and murdered.   
  
Pain shot up his spine as he tried to lever himself erect. Oh, God! Screaming, breath stealing pain! He looked around for something, anything, to use as a support to drag himself upright. A few yards away was a sturdy looking tree. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, he dragged himself over. Standing both crutches upright, and bracing himself against the thick trunk, he slowly pulled himself to his feet. An eternity later, actually mere minutes, he leaned upright against the rough bark, trying to catch his breath. 'God! Help me!' he silently pleaded. Finally, he felt as if he could go on. Staring down the slope to the street below, he prayed that he would make it.  
  
Somehow, Gary finally made it to the sidewalk which ran parallel to the empty street without falling. Uniformed officers paced back and forth, eyeing the expectant crowd with, to Gary's mind, at least, not nearly enough suspicion.   
  
Glancing down, he noticed that his shadow had all but disappeared. It must be almost noon, he judged. 'Certainly no later than eleven thirty,' he prayed. He eyed the distance to the infamous brick building with a sinking heart. Less than a hundred yards, he judged. Normally, he could have run that distance in just a little over a minute even through a crowd. Today, when his need for speed was the greatest, he would be lucky to make it before the fatal shot was fired! Gritting his teeth, Gary put all he had into moving his stubborn legs.   
  
Many times during that painfully slow progression, Gary thought of asking for help. But, whom could he trust? What if Marley had people watching for trouble? That man with the umbrella, for instance? Why was he carrying an umbrella on such a clear, sunny day? And that man standing across and down the street, who kept glancing at the upper floors of the very building Gary was struggling so desperately to reach? Another lookout? Gary knew that he was probably just being paranoid; that only Marley and Oswald were truly involved. But, could he take that chance? In his own time, Marley had indicated that he was just a hired gun. If that was true, whom had he worked for? Who had he worked with?  
  
Several people in the crowded street eyed his frantic, painful progress with open curiosity, but no one moved to stop, or assist him. Grunting with each agonizing step, Gary never took his eyes off his goal. The Texas Schoolbook Depository. The place where Lee Harvey Oswald was preparing to fire the fatal shot that would shock the nation. Had Marley drawn him into his web the same way he had tried to lure Gary? "Like a moth to the flame." Is that how it had been for the ex-marine? Had he been a hapless pawn, as Marley had intended for Gary to be? Or had he joined the plot willingly? Was he just another soul the rogue agent had 'borrowed' so that he could 'throw it away'? Or was he damned by his own desire?  
  
Gary cursed his useless legs as, panting with fear and exertion, he finally reached his goal. Pausing a minute to catch his breath, Gary eyed the steps of the entryway with dismay. There weren't many, but it was still a considerable hurdle to overcome. Having to depend almost entirely on the crutches, now, just to stay upright, he would have to drag himself up one painful step at a time. Time. Something he had precious little of right now. Jaw clenched, he determinedly set to his Herculean task.   
  
By the time he reached the top step, Gary was trembling with exhaustion. 'God! How'm I ever gonna . . .? An elevator! Thank you thank you thank you!' Pushing through the door leading into the main part of the building, Gary spotted the answer to his prayers just a few feet away. As soon as he was within reach, he steadied himself on his wooden props enough to push the call button. After that the minutes seemed to drag as the conveyance stopped at every floor above before it finally reached his. Several people stepped off the elevator carrying paper sacks or metal lunch boxes, talking and laughing excitedly about getting to see the President up close. Again, Gary was tempted to give a warning, but something held him back. Finally the car was empty. He lurched his way inside and started to punch the button. For which floor? What had the paper said? Sixth! The sixth floor! At last, he was on his way.  
  
"I can do this," he kept telling himself as the elevator made its slow assent. "I know I can do this!"  
  
Finally, the doors slid open. Cautiously, Gary peered around the cavernous room before he made his clumsy exit from the elevator. The doors slid closed once more and, to Gary's horror, the boxy contraption began to descend. He was stuck on the sixth floor with at least one, possibly two murderers! Desperately, he looked around for a place to hide. Stacks of boxes blocked his view of most of the storeroom, and the floor was littered with debris from where workmen had been re-laying the floor. Still, he could hear a familiar voice talking excitedly just a few feet away. Snow! He was telling someone about the coming assassination! He even mentioned the paper! A smooth, soft voice replied that he had everything under control. A voice that, even now, sent chills up Gary's spine. Marley! He was here, too? Of course, he was here! Where else would he be but at the scene of the crowning moment of his murderous career?  
  
"Why don't you wait for me by the elevator?" the turncoat agent was saying. "It'll only take me a moment to subdue Mr. Oswald and we can all go down together."  
  
"I'd just as soon no one knew I was even here, Agent Marley," Snow replied, relief evident in his tone. "Why don't we let you take all the credit?"  
  
"Well, if you insist," Marley agreed, a little too quickly in Gary's opinion. "Still, I'd like for you to wait. I may have to ask you a few more questions."  
  
Hesitantly, Snow agreed. A moment later, Gary heard slow footsteps approaching. Gary pressed his back against a stack of boxes until the figure came into view. He instantly recognized the lean, hawk-like features of the man who had led him to the abandoned carpet store. The man who had told him to 'Count the living.'  
  
"Hsst! Snow!" he called in an urgent whisper. "Lucius Snow!"   
  
Startled, Snow turned, spotting a younger, dark-haired man in a black leather jacket, who looked like he was literally on his last legs. His back was propped against a stack of boxes. A pair of wooden crutches were held loosely, one in each hand. The boy was sweat-stained and trembling as he strove to regain his breath. "Do I know you?" he asked suspiciously.  
  
"Not yet," Gary replied cryptically. "B-but you will." For a moment, he was tempted to tell Snow who he was, ply him with questions about the paper. But that wasn't why he was here, and they had no time to waste. "You've got to leave. Now! Don't . . . don't wait for . . . for Marley."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because he's setting you up!" Gary hissed. "He's not here to protect the President! He-he's here to kill him! Oswald is just a . . . a pawn he's brainwashed to . . .to do the job for him. Marley is here t-to make sure he does it right! And if they can set . . . set you up to take the blame, he can use Oswald again . . . later . . . wh-when he tries to kill an-another world leader!" Something rustled on the other side of the stack. Was Marley able to hear him as easily as he had heard Marley? "Please! T-trust me on this! If you don't leave now, you'll go down in his-history as the man . . ." he paused to get more air into his starving lungs, " the man who shot Kennedy!" Snow still didn't look convinced. "Look at the paper!" Gary pleaded desperately. "Just look at the damned paper!"  
  
Snow looked at Gary like he had suddenly grown a new head. "How . . ."  
  
"I get it, too," Gary finally told him. "Only . . . not for a few more years. Please, trust me!"  
  
"It's a little late for that."  
  
Startled Snow looked back the way he had come to see Marley aiming the business end of his silenced automatic at him. "So, he's tellin' the truth. You are the real killer."  
  
"That has such a spiteful ring to it," Marley almost purred. "I prefer 'expeditor'. I simply hurry people on their merry way to the hereafter. Now, whom were you talking to, Mr. Snow? Please ask him to step out so we can discuss this like civilized men."  
  
Gary had not been idle during Marley's speech. He silently leaned one crutch against the stacks, taking the other in both hands as he would his favorite hockey stick. Putting everything he had into an overhand swing, he brought the impromptu club down on the renegade agent's arm. There was a loud 'phutt!' as the gun went off, the bullet plowing into a pile of debris by the stairwell. At the same moment, Gary screamed. "Run!" Snow didn't have to be told again. He had no idea, yet, who this courageous young man was, but, if the paper had sent him, then he had better listen!  
  
As Snow bolted down the stairs he could still hear the diminishing sounds of the struggle. It galled him to leave the young man to fight what he felt was his battle, but, the boy would not have been sent on this task if it had not been vital that he, Lucius Snow, live to fight another day. Still, he vowed to learn more about his successor as soon as it was possible. He owed the young man a huge vote of thanks. As Snow ran out the front door of the Texas Schoolbook Depository, he heard what sounded like a firecracker. Seconds later, there was another, then, in quick succession, a third. And then . . . he saw a president die.  
  
************  
  
Gary slammed into Marley's legs as the impetus of his swing overcame his precarious balance. The two became a tangle of arms and legs as they struggled for possession of the gun. All the while, Gary kept one ear listening for Snow's disappearing footsteps. He had to make it! Snow had to live or it was all for nothing!   
  
As the first shot rang out on the other side of the stacks, Gary's attention was diverted enough for Marley to land a stunning blow to the side of his head. Gary slumped to the floor, struggling to remain conscious. When he was again able to open his eyes, two blurred figures were arguing in hushed tones a short distance away, their backs to him.  
  
"He's a cripple, man! No one is gonna buy him standing on crutches and making one shot like that, let alone three!" one man was saying.   
  
"They won't know he was a cripple if we get rid of the crutches," Marley hissed. "One shot to the head or the heart, and he certainly won't be volunteering the information!"  
  
As the two men argued about his fate, Gary dragged himself painstakingly towards the door to the stairwell. He reached up with a trembling hand to grasp the knob and haul himself to his feet. Propping himself against the wall by the door, he was able to get it open and force a few excruciating steps out of his almost totally useless appendages before they finally gave out entirely, sending him tumbling headlong down the steps. For a moment, he lay there, flat of his back on the next landing, left leg once again bent under him. This time, he was aware of nothing as his body did a slow dissolve into oblivion.  
  
When Marley and Oswald heard the noise, they looked around and noticed that the stranger was gone. They rushed to the stairwell, but saw nothing. Not even a bloodstain. Puzzled and alarmed, both men were forced to flee the building before they were discovered. Marley paused only long enough to retrieve his lost gun and sift through the pile of debris to recover his spent slug. As a Secret Service Agent, his own presence would be easy enough to explain, if he was discovered. He was, after all, trying to find the President's assassin.  
  
The crutches were nowhere to be found.  
  
******************  
  
"Gary!"  
  
Bernie Hobson tumbled from the bed at his wife's panicked cry. Dazed, still half-asleep, he hauled himself onto the edge of the bed. He saw Lois sitting bolt upright, bathed in the glow of a distant streetlight. Her eyes were wide open, as if in shock, and her hands were clutched to her breast. Her breath was coming in short little gasps.  
  
"Honey? What's wrong?" Bernie asked with concern. "Did you have a bad dream?"  
  
"The worst!" she confirmed. "The cat was in it, and Gary . . . He's hurt, Bernie! I think he's dying! We have to go to him! Now!"  
  
"Now?" He looked at the alarm clock. "Lois, it's two in the morning!"  
  
"Good!" she snapped, throwing aside the covers. "We'll pretty much have the road to ourselves. I'm going, Bernie. With or without you. And the speed limits be damned!"  
  
**********************  
  
Marissa arrived home feeling bone tired. She couldn't remember the last time McGinty's had been that busy! And it wasn't even a 'game' night! Even though she'd not had to wait tables or serve drinks, she was kept busy enough to leave her feeling totally drained. She wondered if Gary, who had worked like a horse all night, felt the same way? Probably worse. He had seemed so determined to bring that table up from the basement. She sincerely hoped she had managed to talk him out of it! She was so afraid that he might fall down the basement stairs while trying to maneuver that heavy table up to the first floor on his own, and injure himself.   
  
In the end, he had agreed to enlist Vadim, one of their bartenders, to help him with it in the morning. Still, it bothered her that he might try to do it alone, anyway. 'Well,' she thought, 'I'll just have to trust Gary to use his head and keep his word.'   
  
She was way too tired to think about it anymore, or to do any of the little 'chores' she usually did around the apartment. All she could think of was a hot bath and a soft bed. Preferably in that order. With that in mind, Marissa unhitched Reilly's harness and put thought into action.   
  
'Finally,' she sighed as she climbed into bed. 'I can get some sleep. God, what a day!' As she sank deeply into her warm mattress and fluffy soft pillows, she pulled the covers up with a contented little smile. 'Oh, this feels sooo good,' she almost purred to herself as she drifted off to sleep.  
  
Minutes later, she was sitting straight up in bed, her heart pounding fit to burst! Dear God! What a horrible nightmare! She sat there, gasping for breath as she tried to still the pounding in her chest and ears. Gary! That terrible dream had been about her dearest friend! He had been falling. Endlessly falling into a swirling vortex, like a black hole. His mouth was moving, as if he was calling to her, begging for her to save him! But, she couldn't hear him! She could still feel the sense of vertigo that had pervaded the horrible vision.   
  
"I must be really tired," she sighed. "That or my mother hen complex is working overtime." Deciding that she was just worked up over nothing, she lay back and snuggled deeper under the covers. Surely Gary was not so careless as to risk his health over a table! Still, she hoped that particular dream would not revisit her tonight.  
  
Tossing and turning restlessly, she tried to put the dream out of her mind. But, the image of Gary falling helplessly into nothingness was hard to dispel. Finally, it gave way to exhaustion, and she drifted off to sleep once more. For a while, it seemed she would not be disturbed any more that night.   
  
'Help! Marissa, help me!'  
  
Gary was again being pulled down into a swirling vortex. But, it was different, this time. Before, it had been merely a sense of black on black, spinning endlessly into eternity. Now, Gary was bathed in red. A deep, bright red. Marissa had lost her sight as a small child, and many things, like colors, were just a vague memory. But, this shade of red she remembered clearly from her many visits to the hospital as she was losing her sight. It was blood. Gary was totally awash in the color of blood!  
  
She bolted upright once more, her heart pounding so hard, she was afraid it would burst! Gary was hurt! No. Gary was dying! She knew it! Could feel the life draining from him! No! It was just a dream! A horribly vivid dream, but a dream all the same. Gradually, her heart slowed to a less frantic rhythm. Gary was most likely safe in bed, snoring loudly enough to rattle the windows. So, why was she still so frightened?  
  
"Mrowwr?"  
  
'What the . . . ?'  
  
She felt, more than heard, something land on the foot of her bed. There was a soft rustling as tiny feet scampered across the top of her comforter.   
  
"Mroowwrr!"  
  
"Cat? Is that you?" she asked nervously, her skin beginning a slow crawl. A soft, furry head butted up against her hand, demanding attention. Cautiously, Marissa ran a trembling hand along the sleek back. It felt like Gary's cat. She slid a hand under the small body, pulling it close to her face. It even smelled like Gary's . . . "Oh, my God!" she gasped. "Something's wrong . . .Gary's hurt, isn't he? Why else . . .!"  
  
Frantic now, Marissa threw the covers aside and scrambled from the bed. Momentarily disoriented in her haste, she at last found the phone. First, she tried the number to Gary's loft, praying that she was wrong. After a few rings, his answering machine picked up.   
  
"Hello. You've reached Gary Hobson's phone. Unfortunately, Mr. Hobson is unable to answer it. Leave a message and he'll get right back to you." The message was followed by a series of beeps.  
  
"Gary? Gary, pick up the phone!" she pleaded into the recorder. No answer. "If you can hear me, pick up the damned phone! Please!" she sobbed. Still no answer. Almost breathless with an overwhelming sense of dread, Marissa hung up. 'Oh, dear God, let him be all right!' she prayed. What could she do? Who could she . . . Crumb! She still had his home and pager numbers! He would help! As she dialed the first number, she had to smile. Crumb always complained about how Gary seemed to be a 'trouble magnet.' Yet, he had, at times, expressed a grudging admiration for the young man who was so willing to put his life at risk for complete strangers. The phone rang for what seemed like forever. 'If that's what it takes,' Marissa decided grimly.  
  
"This better be important," a sleepy voice growled without preamble.  
  
"Zeke! Thank God you're home!"  
  
"Marissa?" The retired cop was instantly alert. He knew Marissa to be a levelheaded young woman, and not likely to be disturbing his sleep over nothing. "It's . . .three in the morning! Where else would I be? What's wrong?"  
  
"I need you to meet me at McGinty's," she told him quickly. "Something is wrong. I . . . I had this nightmare . . . about Gary." Crumb made an exasperated noise on the other end of the line. "Please listen! I tried to call him, but he doesn't answer! He was too exhausted to have gone off somewhere after closing, and he had been talking about bringing a table upstairs from the basement by himself. He promised to let it wait 'til morning, but . . . I just have this . . .this terrible feeling that something has happened. Please! I know Gary is in trouble and needs our help!"  
  
*******************  
  
On the other end of the line, Crumb ran a hand over his sleep-swollen face with a sigh. Now Hobson was messing up his life by proxy. Still, this was Marissa asking for help. And, he still owed the kid for all the times he had pulled the Crumb fat out of various fires.  
  
"Awright, awright," he sighed. "Get dressed and I'll pick you up in . . .twenty minutes. It'll be quicker than callin' a cab this time of night. And, don't worry so much about Hobson. We'll probably wake him out of a sound sleep, too."  
  
**********************  
  
"Oh, Lord! I hope so, Zeke," Marissa prayed as she lay the phone back in it's cradle. "I truly hope so!"  
  
Twenty minutes later, she heard a knock on her door. Zeke Crumb was as good as his word.  
  
"Reilly, forward," she commanded her dog. Seconds later, they were all loaded up in Crumb's car and on their way to McGinty's.   
  
As they drove the few blocks to their destination, Crumb tried once more to allay her fears. But, Marissa could not shake the pervasive feeling of dread that threatened to overwhelm her. She prayed that it was a premonition, not something that had already happened. The moment they arrived at the popular restaurant/bar, Marissa pulled out her keys. Their loud jingling betrayed her nervousness. What would they find on the other side of that door? Were they too late?   
  
Crumb plucked the keys out of her trembling hand, quickly unlocking the doors. Then he gently guided her inside. He tried the light switch. Nothing.  
  
"I'm afraid he may have tried to carry that table up by himself," Marissa was saying as she released Reilly. She knew the inside of the bar as well as she did her own home. "You try the basement first, and I'll find my way to the loft"  
  
"Good idea. You'll probably hear 'im snoring before we're halfway up the stairs," the ex-cop replied with a gruff laugh, as he turned towards the stairwell.  
  
The young blind woman gave her friend's arm an affectionate squeeze before releasing it. For all his talk of how miserable Gary had made his life, Marissa knew that Zeke had a real 'soft spot' for the younger man.   
  
"You're probably right," she agreed. "But, I'll feel a lot better when I hear his voice."  
  
"Just be careful," Crumb admonished.  
  
She shot him a nervous smile. "I'm always careful, Zeke. It's Gary we have to worry about."  
  
Crumb mumbled something that sounded like, "You got that right." He opened the door leading to the stairwell, reaching in to flick the light switch. Nothing happened. "Hunh! Fuse musta blown. That flashlight still under the main bar?"  
  
"Y-yes it should be," Marissa told him, her sense of foreboding kicking in big time. What was that smell? A kind of sweet, metallic odor. "Hurry!"   
  
"I'm hurrying already!" Crumb grumbled. "Sheesh! Don't wanna end up fallin' down these steps myself. That'll do 'im a fat lotta good!"  
  
Marissa made her hesitant way into the office. That smell. It was stronger here. A lot stronger. Where had she smelled it before? Why did it remind her of . . . hospitals?   
  
"Nothin' downstairs," Crumb's voice assured her from the other room. "He left the table at the foot of the stairs, like he promised you."  
  
Choosing not to reply, she took a few hesitant steps forward, sweeping her cane before her. She stopped as she encountered an obstacle at the foot of the stairs. Fearfully, she reached out a trembling hand, dreading what she would find. Her questing fingers felt rough, denim-like cloth, and a sneaker clad foot. Stunned, she put her hand on the step to brace herself, only to find it covered with a sticky wetness. Heart pounding, she brought her shaking hand up, took a tentative sniff. 'Oh, God!' "Crumb!"  
  
"Hold your horses, little la . . ." He shone the flashlight on the still form sprawled half across the first floor landing just a few steps from where they stood. Hobson lay on his back with his head in a pool of blood. His back was arched upward where it lay across the top of a short stepstool. His left leg was bent under him at an unnatural angle, an even larger crimson puddle still gathering beneath the twisted appendage. Crumb spun Marissa around and quickly pushed her out the door. "Call 911," was all he told her.   
  
Marissa wasted no time arguing. The feel of Gary's blood on her hand was all the urging she needed.   
  
************************  
  
Bernie stopped the truck with a squeal of brakes. Lois had her door open and hit the pavement running. Bernie was no more than a step behind her. She grabbed the front door knob without thinking, startled to find that it turned easily in her hand.   
  
"I told you something was wrong!" Lois cried. "Gary is never open this late!" Pushing through the open alcove door, she tried the light switch. Nothing. But there was a dim glow from the other side of the office door. "Go back and get the lantern, Bernie," she told her husband. "And hurry. I have a really bad feeling about this."  
  
As Bernie doubled back for the lantern, Lois rushed through the darkened bar and into the office just in time to spy Marissa coming out of the stairwell. The panicked look on the blind woman's face told Lois all she needed to know. Something had happened to her son!  
  
She found Crumb kneeling over Gary's motionless body, trying to find a pulse. His explosive sigh of relief said that he had found one. The look on his face, however, was less than reassuring. Lois tried to push her way past the big detective. Crumb moved to bar her way, only to back down when she gave him a look that spoke louder than words. 'Do not get between me and my son!' Tearfully, Lois Hobson knelt by her son's head, unmindful of the pool of blood now soaking into her slacks. She shakily brushed the hair from his clammy forehead, as she murmured words of comfort, begging him to "please wake up!" That was the scene that greeted Bernie as he shone his big lantern on the grisly tableau.  
  
"Don't try to move him," Crumb warned. "If he wakes up, try to keep him still." As he spoke, he was pulling off his belt and strapping it just a few inches above the gaping wound in Gary's thigh. He then used the smaller flashlight he held to twist his makeshift tourniquet as tight as he dared. Gary's right hand gave a small upward twitch, then became ominously still.  
  
"He's not breathing!" Lois cried. Her hand shot down to his throat, just below the jaw. Frightened, she looked at the two men and shook her head wordlessly, tears welling in her eyes.  
  
"We need room to work," Crumb snapped, all business. "Bernie, set that light on the desk. We'll need it to see. Lois, you support his shoulders, and keep his head straight. Bernie, grab his shirt here and the pocket of his jeans like this." He quickly demonstrated what he meant. "We have to keep his back straight. All together, now. On three. One. Two. Three!" Careful not to put any pressure on his spine where it lay across the stool, they lifted Gary's inert form to carry him into the larger area of the office floor. They had one bad moment when it was discovered that Gary's left foot was caught on one of the rungs, but it slipped right out as they lifted him a little higher. The instant they had him safely on the floor, Lois began to breathe for her son. Crumb began compressions as soon as she was clear. And that was how Marissa found them when she returned to say the ambulance was on its way.  
  
"Please, Gary," she quietly begged. "Please don't die!"  
  
Lois fought back tears of dread as she tried to breathe life into the empty shell that she feared might be all that was left of her only child. Tired of standing by helplessly, Bernie was about to relieve Crumb, when he saw Gary's right hand twitch again.  
  
"He moved! Check his pulse again!"  
  
Lois already had her fingers to her son's throat once more. The tears that she had been fighting back won the battle and spilled down her cheeks in a torrent of relief. He was still alive!  
  
"M'm?"  
  
"I'm here, sweetie," she replied in a choked voice. "Momma's right here."  
  
"S'kay," he told her in a breathy whisper. "S-stopped 'im. Stopped M-Marley. Snow . . . Snow's 'kay."  
  
Puzzled, Lois looked at her husband, as she absently stroked Gary's forehead. Bernie just shrugged, equally at a loss, and turned to the other two.   
  
Marissa and Crumb looked like they had seen a ghost. Shaken, Marissa was only distantly aware of the approaching sirens. Marley! What could the renegade Secret Service agent have to do with this? He had been dead for more than three years!  
  
**************************  
  
Gary was only dimly aware of the frenzied activity going on around him. Muffled voices, blurs of light and darkness. Pain. Distant echoes of pain. In his head, his hands . . . his back. It was like it was happening to someone else.   
  
************************  
  
The EMTs worked quickly to immobilize Gary's leg and spine, and stem the sluggish flow of blood from his wounds. As one man checked Gary's vital signs and placed monitor patches on his now exposed chest, another spoke with his rescuers. After getting as much information as Marissa and Crumb were able to provide, ascertaining whether or not Gary was currently on any medications, and what he might be allergic to, they relayed everything to Cook County in terse, efficient sentences.  
  
"We have a thirty-five year old white male," the EMT reported. "Fell approximately twenty feet down a flight of stairs. Burns on both hands, and debris in the stairwell suggest electrocution. Compound fracture of left thigh and laceration occipital region only other obvious injuries. Evidence of major blood loss. Witnesses state that patient has arrested once, but regained consciousness briefly after they performed CPR. Request permission to start IV Ringer's Lactate." The young paramedic nodded once at the response, then set to work once more.   
  
****************  
  
What was going on? Who were all these people? Gary couldn't concentrate long enough to catch what was being said around him. Ringer's what? Ouch! That hurt! But only a low moan escaped his dry lips. He was so tired. Couldn't they just let him sleep? Then, he was being lifted on some hard surface. A board of some kind. Where were they taking him? He just wanted to sleep!  
  
******************  
  
"Flat line! Full arrest! County, we have a full arrest! Administering one unit of Epi. Roger, defibrillating now."  
  
"Clear!"  
  
Whumph!  
  
"Again! Clear!"  
  
Whumph!  
  
"We have normal sinus rhythm."  
  
*********************  
  
'Please let me sleep,' Gary silently begged. 'I'm just so tired! Please let me sleep. Just a little while?'  
  
*****************  
  
The EMTs hit the ER doors just short of a dead run.   
  
"What have we got?"  
  
"White male in his mid-thirties," the lead man reported in a clipped, verbal shorthand. "Fell down a flight of stairs, two, possibly three hours ago. No witnesses. Possible electrocution. Compound fracture left femur. Deep laceration in the occipital region. Second degree burns of both hands. Arrested at the scene, and twice enroute. Major blood loss. We began bolusing fluids at the scene"  
  
"Room three," the young resident snapped. Without turning his head or breaking his stride, he began issuing orders to the nurse. "Tell lab we need a type and cross for six units whole blood, and cardiac enzymes. And I need it yesterday. Get x-rays for skull, cervical, lumbar, and femur. And we'll probably need a CT and MRI once he's stabilized. Alert neurology and orthopedics. Do we have a name?"  
  
"Hobson. Gary Hobson," the EMT reported. "Family's right behind us."  
  
"I'll need his records."  
  
******************  
  
Lois and Bernie watched helplessly as their only child was whisked behind closed doors. Crumb had taken Marissa to the waiting room, but Lois flatly refused to be led away. No matter what happened, she would be the first to know.   
  
"Fight, Gary," she whispered tearfully. "I know you can make it if you'll just fight!"  
  
***********************  
  
The inert form was quickly moved onto the stretcher and his clothes cut away, revealing his slim, yet muscular torso. Monitor leads were swiftly attached to his chest, a pulse oximeter clamped onto the middle finger of his right hand, and a blood pressure cuff slapped around his right upper arm. The heart monitor gave a steady, and reassuring beep . . .beep . . .beep. Blood pressure and oxygen levels, however, were dangerously low.   
  
********************  
  
'Tired. So tired. Please let me sleep.' It was like a whole crowd of people shouting at him through a muffling wall. They kept calling his name, poking things into his body, and his flesh. 'Please,' he wanted to tell them, 'just let me sleep.'  
  
********************  
  
"I want that blood work STAT!" Dr. Carter snapped as the lab tech made her escape. To the x-ray tech, he added, "We'll need a chest on this guy, too. I think he may have some rib fractures."  
  
"Gotcha," the tech, whose ID badge carried the odd name of Polly Gannon, replied. She quickly slid a film into the tray beneath the table and positioned her machine. "Everybody covered? I'm ready to shoot! Last warning!" Buzzzz, BEEP! "Too late now if you weren't." A few minutes later, she quickly gathered the exposed films and rushed out.   
  
******************  
  
'Leave me alone,' Gary begged. 'I just want to sleep. Why can't you let me sleep?'  
  
******************  
  
The heart monitor gave a single mournful tone as the image went to a flat line.  
  
"We're losing 'im! Get me a unit of epi and sodium bicarb! . . . No good. Defibrillate, two fifty. Ready . . . clear!"  
  
Whumph!  
  
"Again . . . Clear!"  
  
Whumph!  
  
"Take it to three hundred! Again . . . Clear!"  
  
Whumph!  
  
******************  
  
Gary looked down on the frantic scene with a feeling of infinite sadness. It was over. He was finally free. Free of the paper, the cat, all of it. That was what he had wanted, wasn't it? To be free? So, why did he feel so . . . lost? With a sigh, he turned his back on the frenzied scene. And there she was, in the hallway. His mom. Dad was saying something to her, his arms around her shoulders, trying to comfort her. But, she would not allow herself to be comforted so long as her child was in danger. She clung desperately to her husband's sleeve as she stared at the door, tears of grief steaming down her cheeks.  
  
"It's all right, Mom," he said, as though she could hear. "I'm not hurting anymore. Everything's okay, now."  
  
Or was it? Without moving, he could see Marissa and Crumb in the waiting room. Marissa was crying on the big detective's shoulder. Great, heart wrenching sobs. Gary hated that he was the source of so much pain and grief, but, what could he do?  
  
"You have to go back," a very young, soft, familiar voice told him.  
  
Gary spun around to see two luminous figures standing between him and the room where they still worked over his lifeless body. The taller of the two he recognized right away. He could never mistake, now, the hawk-like features of his predecessor, Lucius Snow. The other was a slender, blonde haired, teenaged girl. She looked so fam . . .  
  
"Rachel?  
  
The slender girl shook her head sadly. "Rachel still lives," she told him. "I have only borrowed her semblance as I did once before. It is not yet your time, Gary Hobson. You still have much work left to do. All that has gone before is just a prelude to even greater tasks, and challenges, yet to come."  
  
"What if I don't want to go back?" Gary asked stubbornly. "What if I'm tired of all these 'tasks and challenges'? What if I really want to die, this time?"  
  
"Do you?" Snow asked calmly. "Are you truly ready to say good-bye to all your loved ones? And all those who will perish because you weren't there to make a difference? As I almost wasn't there for you?"  
  
Turning, Gary watched his mother bury her tear-streaked face against his father's chest, whose own face was also twisted in grief. In the waiting room, Marissa still wept uncontrollably. Even Crumb seemed overwhelmed with sorrow. Unbidden, the faces of Toni Brigatti and Paul Armstrong came to mind. Miguel Diaz, Meredith Carson, Mollie Greene. All grief-stricken. For him. Faces floated across the surface of his mind that he knew he had never seen. Some wore expressions of terror and pain. Others wept openly in despair, or sorrow. And the cavalcade of images seemed to stretch into infinity. What tore at him the hardest were . . . the children. 'So many!' he thought incredulously. 'Am I really responsible for so much pain?'  
  
"Why me?" he asked plaintively. "Why was I chosen for all these . . .tasks? What's so special about me?"  
  
"I've asked those same questions myself," Snow replied with a sad smile. "The answers were not given to me until my own tasks were done. I can only say this, Gary, of all who have gone before, and all who will come after, in all the world, your light shines the brightest. It's by your own strength, will, and compassion that you are able to cross the boundaries of time itself. I am honored to have been the one to guide your first steps into the great Unknown."  
  
Gary turned to 'Rachel'. "My 'light' . . .? What does that mean?"  
  
"I cannot tell you at this time, Gary Hobson," the image of Rachel replied with a sad little smile. "Suffice it to say that you are a rarity among mortals. You possess a purity of heart, soul, and spirit that is in short supply in your fellow man. You have offered up your life and happiness many times for those in distress, many of whom you have never even met. It is said that there is no greater sacrifice than to offer up ones life for a friend. You have successfully met this challenge many times over. So, I will give you a hint as to what it is that awaits you once your final challenge has been met and your tasks completed. Look to the hymn 'Blest Are They.' I can say no more . . ."  
  
"And, if I don't meet these . . . 'challenges'?"  
  
"That's also not for us to say," Lucius told him. "But, can you truly condemn others to the whims of fate, when you have the power to save them?"  
  
Again, that sea of faces surged through his mind. Then he heard them. Two familiar voices calling for him. "Fight, Gary!" they pleaded as one. "You have to fight your way back to us! Please!"  
  
"No," he sighed wearily. "I guess I'm not . . . finished, yet. So. What do I do?"  
  
*****************  
  
The young resident wearily stripped off his latex gloves as he looked at the clock.   
  
"Call it," he sighed. "Time of death, four forty-two AM." He leaned back against the counter, emotionally drained. Damn, what a waste! Hobson was no older than he was. Way too young to just die like this! "Let's clear out and give his family a few minutes before . . ."  
  
"Sure," the nurse replied in a hushed tone, pausing in the act of removing the monitor leads. "His parents are right outside. I'll-I'll get them."  
  
"No," Dr. Carter almost moaned as he rubbed tired eyes. "No, I'll tell them. Just . . . clean him up a little. They shouldn't have to see him like this." As he headed for the door, he added to himself, "No parent should."  
  
*******************  
The look on the young doctor's face told Lois Hobson all she needed to know. They had been too late. She barely heard his voice saying how sorry he was. That they had done all they could. Gary had simply lost too much blood. His voice sounded as if it were coming from a thousand miles away. He was wrong. He had to be wrong! Gary couldn't . . .! Not her baby!  
  
Where did they come from? Marissa was suddenly at her side, tearfully saying over and over again, "I'm so sorry! I should have awakened sooner! Should 've listened to that damned dream! I'm . . ."  
  
The two women sank to the floor in a heap of raging emotion. The two men looked on helplessly, Crumb with one arm around the shoulders of a clearly distraught Bernie Hobson. 'What can you do in a situation like this?' he wondered. 'What do you say to someone who's just had their whole world yanked out from under them?'  
  
****************  
  
Tearfully, Lois looked down at the pale, motionless form of her son. She felt . . . weak, tired. The only things keeping her on her feet were the strong arms of her husband. It hurt. Oh, God, it hurt! To see him like this! So still, when he was so full of life just hours before! How, when he had given so much for so many, could his life be cut short like this? He was too young! His successor was not even close to being old enough to handle the responsibility that came with the Paper! Gary should have had years before the torch had to be passed!  
  
"It's not fair!" she wailed, turning into Bernie's broad chest. "It's just not fair! After everything he's done . . . all that he's given up . . . to help others, why couldn't someone be there when he needed help?"  
  
"No one ever promised life would be fair," Bernie Hobson replied, his own voice husky with unshed tears. "From what you told me the other day, we should be thankful to've had as much time as we did. If not for Snow and the paper, this would've happened a long time ago. Thanks to him, we at least got to see our boy become one hell of a man."  
  
Tearfully, the bereft couple turned to the gurney that held all that remained of their only child. Lois reached out with a trembling hand to brush the hair from his forehead, as she had so many times in the past. When he was still her little boy. She stroked his pale cheek, amazed that it still felt so warm when it should be cold as death. Wordlessly, she took his left hand in hers, pressing his lax fingers against her cheek in a gentle caress. For just a moment, she thought she felt those fingers move. Imagined them curling around hers in a last embrace. With a choked sob, she lay the hand back by his side. As she bent down to place a tender kiss on his cheek, a tear fell from her eyes and ran down the corner of his mouth. Did she imagine it, or did his lips tremble?  
  
Bernie moved around to the other side of the gurney, his eyes wandering over the still form of his son. Sadly, he recalled playing catch with Gary as a kid, of teaching him how to play football, and basketball. He recalled all the fun they'd had fishing and camping. Those were joyous times that would live now only in his memories.   
  
At first, Bernie thought it was a trick of the light. Was his broken heart playing games with his mind? Then, it happened again. Gary's right thumb twitched. "Lois," he said in a breathy whisper, "get the doc." His eyes were glued to that one, pale hand. Slowly . . . so painfully slow . . . the first two fingers curled inwards.  
  
Still fighting shock, her hand once more stroking her son's soft locks, Lois looked up into her husband's incredulous face in puzzlement.   
  
"He just moved,' Bernie told her, hope and awe mixed in his voice. "I swear it, honey. His right hand moved, just now! He's still . . ."  
  
Gary chose, at that moment, to cough, causing his entire body to jerk with the effort of trying to expel air through his dry throat. The sound was like a shot that galvanized Lois to action. She sprang to the door and screamed for the doctor to "get your butt back in here! He's moving! He's alive!"   
  
As the ER staff practically stampeded past her, Lois pulled Bernie out the door. "Let them work," she told him, tears of joy and dread flowing freely. "They can't let him slip away again. They can't!"  
  
"They won't," Bernie assured her. "Gary won't give up that easy. And, now, neither will they."  
  
An eternity later, actually less than fifteen minutes, the doctor approached them as the stretcher bearing Gary's now restlessly stirring form was whisked down the hall.   
  
"Gary is stable for the moment." Dr. Carter told them. "We're sending him up to radiology for more x-rays to determine the extent of his injuries. The most obvious one, of course, is that leg. His neck seems to be okay, and I believe his skull is intact. However, that doesn't rule out intra-cranial inj. . . I'm sorry. We want to rule out any serious brain damage. Also, and I'm going to be blunt here, there's the possibility of some spinal cord damage. We won't know until he comes to."  
  
"Spinal damage," Bernie repeated, his blood turning to ice water. "As in . . .paralysis? You mean he'll . . . he'll spend the rest of his life . . ."  
  
"That's only a possibility, Mr. Hobson," Carter reminded him. "It's also possible that he'll beat the odds. Again."  
  
********************  
  
Polly looked at the young man on her table as she set to work. Where the hell were guys like him when she was that young? With a flick of her hand she pulled the sheet back up so that it again covered his slender hips. Blushing, she couldn't decide if that gesture was for his modesty or her own. He obviously kept himself fit! A small sigh escaped her lips as she silently prayed to find nothing more serious than a broken leg.  
  
*********************  
  
Exhausted, Lois Hobson slid into the chair by Gary's bedside. They said she could only have a few minutes, but she defied anyone to move her from this spot. The sight before her tore at her heart like nothing ever had since the moment she first held him in her arms. But, that had been a pain born of infinite joy. To at last hold the life she had nurtured in her body for nine long months, cradled in her arms. To see his face for the first time. That had been the happiest moment of her life. Now, to see him lying here, one machine standing by to help him breathe, if necessary, others monitoring his heart, his pulse rate, and blood pressure, tubes running into each arm providing life sustaining blood, fluids and medication. More tubes to drain urine, and to remove drainage from where they had repaired his broken leg. Bandages covered the burns on his hands and his injured leg, as well as the stitches on the back of his head. At least they had not had to shave his head much, just a modest area around the surprisingly small laceration.   
  
Reaching through the railing, Lois tenderly took his bandaged hand in both of hers. It hurt to see her normally energetic son so still and . . . lifeless. The warmth she felt under the bandages reassured her somewhat. Still, if he would just open his eyes!  
  
"Lois. Honey?" Bernie lay a calloused hand gently on her shoulder. "You need to get some rest," he told her quietly. "They'll let us know it there's any change."  
  
"I can't." she sniffled. "What if he wakes up and . . . and there's no one here? He . . . he'll be all alone. In a strange place. So lost and confused!" The tears that had been threatening to fall since she first saw him hooked up to so many . . . machines, finally broke through. She pressed his bandaged hand gently against her cheek and wept. "It's . . . it's only been a few hours since they said he was d-dead! Wh-what if . . .?"  
  
"What if nothing," Bernie murmured, bending down to take her in his arms. "Gary's a fighter. Like you. He might get discouraged from time to time, but he never quits until the job's done. Have you ever known him to back down from a fight? All those black eyes and bloody noses he came home with as a kid? Even in college?"  
  
"But, that was him fighting for someone else," Lois reminded him. "He almost never stood up for himself! What if . . . if he's just too tired to go on? Or what if . . . oh, God, he's been living on borrowed time since that awful essay contest! What if-if it's time for him to . . . to pay up?"  
  
"It's not," her husband assured her. "That Snow character lived another twenty years before he passed the baton to Gary. Now, Gary has to stick around at least that long until this other kid is old enough to take over! Now, how's about you dry your eyes and I take you to this nice room they got set aside for us. You can shower and change, maybe have a little nap, and be all bright-eyed and smiling when he wakes up. And he will wake up!" he added with more assurance than he felt.  
  
For the first time Lois looked down at her blood stained slacks. Dear Lord, so much blood!  
  
"Oh! Oh, you're right!" she exclaimed, standing so fast she almost knocked the chair over. Bernie barely got clear in time to avoid a collision! "I can't let Gary see me like this! He-he'll panic! He'll think I'm the one that belongs in a hospital!"  
  
Bernie smiled at the sudden change in her demeanor. As long as Lois could stay focused, she would be alright.   
  
"Besides," he added, "Gary won't be alone. There's a whole slew of people waiting to see him." At Lois' puzzled look, he explained. "Remember when we threw that surprise party for him? We complained that he hardly had any friends? We were wrong. There's about twenty people out in the waiting room. All drawing straws to see who gets to come in next. I don't know how the word got out, but each and every one has a story to tell about our boy. I promised Marissa that she and Crumb could take the next shift, though. I figure . . . everyone getting . . .oh , ten, fifteen minutes each, our boy'll be covered for the next six hours at least. So, could you lie down for, say, three?"  
  
"An hour and a half," Lois countered. "And that includes the shower. Oh! Oh, my! What'll I change into? We left in such a hurry, we didn't bring any clothes!"  
  
"Two hours and I'll show you where I put the things I had one of the candy-stripers get for you," Bernie haggled, taking her back into his arms. "I'm not gonna tell you to stop worrying, Lois. I just want you to close your eyes for a little while so's not to scare Gary back into cardiac arrest for worrying about you!"  
  
"You are a cruel, evil man, Bernard Hobson," Lois growled, leaning into his embrace. "Deal. Two hours and I'm right back here. No matter what."  
  
"No matter what," Bernie agreed.  
  
***********************  
  
Winslow rushed up the stairs of the 27th Precinct, running a hand nervously through his thick blonde hair. 'God! I hope she already knows!' His partner, Toni Brigatti, was one who would definitely shoot the bearer of bad news! He scanned the squad room as he entered, hoping she had already heard and was on her way to the hospital. All teasing aside, Winslow knew she had, at the very least, a deep regard for the man, and a load of regrets over certain incidents. Whoops! So much for the power of prayer. Brigatti stood over by the copier, talking to Armstrong. Wonderful! Armstrong also had a history with the poor guy. He could kill two birds with one stone. Or be stoned. Gathering his rapidly failing courage, Winslow strode briskly over to his fellow officers.  
  
"Toni! Paul! I thought you two would be over at County General," he commented in his best casual/puzzled tone.   
  
Toni turned a suspicious eye on her partner. "And what would we be doing at County General?"  
  
Putting on a 'surprised' face, the blonde detective plunged on. "You don't . . . you haven't heard?" he asked, all innocence.   
  
Brigatti was having none of it. "Spill it, Ken," she ordered. "Who's at County we'd be interested in?"  
  
Winslow turned a 'confused' gaze on Armstrong. "You really don't know?"  
  
"No," the big cop replied icily. "We don't. Suppose you tell us?"  
  
"It's Hobson," he finally admitted, serious now. "I saw him being wheeled into intensive care about an hour and a half ago. He'd taken a header down some stairs, they said. Lay there for hours before anyone found him. Toni, he's in pretty bad shape. A broken leg, head injury, maybe even some spinal damage. And, he lost a lot of blood. So much that . . . he died. I'm serious, guys! I heard a coupla nurses talkin' about how eerie it was. They'd called the time and everything! But, he came back while his folks were . . . were saying their . . . I'm tellin' you, it sent chills up my spine just hearing about it! That reporter, Miguel Diaz was there, trying to get an interview with that Clark woman and Zeke Crumb. They were the ones that first found him. Just before his folks came rushing in. They knew, Toni! They knew he was hurt before he was even found! Mrs. Hobson said that she'd dreamed about it!"  
  
"That explains a lot," Armstrong muttered as he grabbed his coat.   
  
"Explains what?" Winslow asked, truly puzzled this time.  
  
"About Hobson," Brigatti explained, as she too, headed for the door. "Weirdness must run in the family."  
  
*******************  
  
Marissa slid carefully into the chair that Lois Hobson had so reluctantly abandoned. She heard Zeke Crumb pull up a chair next to her. Except for the gentle, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, the room was silent. She reached a hand through the railing and felt around until she held the same hand that was still moist with a mother's tears.   
  
'Come back to me, Gary,' she prayed in the silence of her heart. 'A friendship like ours is too rare and wonderful to end like this! Where else will I find someone who won't laugh or scold me when I take foolish chances? Who'll help me try to make sense of things that seem to have no meaning? Who won't treat me like less of a person, just because I can't see as they do? You loved and protected me. Yet you gave me the space I needed to be me. Where do I find another man like you, Gary Hobson, who feels that love is more than just a physical act? You're my best friend, Gary! Please don't leave me!'  
  
The silence was suddenly shattered by the explosive sound of a throat being cleared. Marissa smiled as she pictured Crumb's discomfort.  
  
"You, ah, you two have known each other a long time, haven't you," he commented.   
  
"Since he first walked into the door of Strauss and Associates," Marissa confirmed, in a sad voice.  
  
"That's right. He was a stockbroker. What was he like, then? First startin' out like that?"  
  
"Nervous," Marissa recalled fondly. "Bless his heart, he was so nervous coming in to apply for a job straight out of college, and a newlywed on top of that. I could hear him constantly tugging at that tie like it was about to strangle him! Anyone could tell that he really didn't want to be there. Later, once we'd gotten to know each other better, he confided that he had only taken the job to put his new wife through law school. He was so much in love with her; he would have done anything she asked of him. And, outwardly, it seemed like she loved him, too. Anyway, that first day, he was so jittery. Stuttering so bad I was afraid he might choke."  
  
"Yeah," Crumb chuckled. "He gets really tongue-tied when he's nervous."  
  
"And he was scared to death!" Marissa smiled at the memory. "You could tell that he hadn't had much experience with blind people. He wasn't sure what to say or do, how much help I might need or what I would find offensive. He walked on eggshells around me for weeks! Finally, he asked me out to dinner. I was a little surprised at first. After all he was supposed to be a happily married man! Still, you know, why not? So I agreed, and he took me out to this really nice restaurant. Not elegant, but nice. We had a lovely dinner, polite conversation, then, over desert, he finally got to the point. He said, 'Marissa, you're a wonderful, beautiful, intelligent woman. And I think you and I could be real good friends, b-but I don't know the rules here. And I'm tired of trying to treat you with kid gloves when you obviously don't want that. I guess what I'm trying to say is . . . h-how 'equal' is 'equal'? How should I behave a-around you so as not to offend you, yet not give the idea that I 'want' something from you? If-if you, um, know what I mean.' And I could actually feel him blush! Gary's the only one that has ever happened with. "  
  
Crumb couldn't suppress a chuckle. He could almost see it! "So, what did you say?"  
  
"Well, at first, I took it exactly the way he was afraid I would take it," she said with a giggle. "I was indignant, and accused him of trying to proposition me. And you should have heard him! I had thought he was nervous before, but I could practically hear the blood drain from his face! Talk about stuttering! He was almost incoherent! 'N-no! God, no! N-nothing . . .Oh, man. I knew I'd screw this up!' I could hear his hands raking through his hair. He does that a lot when he's nervous, too. 'I just . . . I love Marcia very much. But sometimes . . . sometimes I just need to get a different slant on wh-what might be going on with her. A second opinion, sorta. I mean, Chuck is a great guy, but he's a guy! I'm not talking about . . .no! God, not even if she was . . . which she isn't! I'm sorry. This was a bad idea. Just let me get the check and I'll take you home . . .' By that time, I finally understood what he had been getting at. He didn't want a lover. He was an only child, and he wanted a sister! Someone whom he could come to with his troubles, share secrets with and give him the female perspective. He couldn't get that from Marcia. He had tried. He told me that she listened to him talk, but not always to what he had to say. Suddenly, I felt . . . honored. This . . . young, healthy man saw me as something other than a blind woman. He saw me as more than just a woman. He wanted to be my friend in the truest sense of the word. I told him to sit back down and we would talk about it. We were there until they kicked us out. Just . . . talking. We've been the best of friends ever since."  
  
"You got off to a better start with 'im than I did," Crumb laughed. "I arrested him! And he was the hostage!"  
  
"A willing hostage, don't forget," Marissa reminded him. "He didn't have to run into that elevator behind the gunman."  
  
"Does he still get letters from that guy?"   
  
"No," she sighed. "Frank got a new job not long after that. Not having a bank robbery charge on his record helped. Gary still gets Christmas cards from him and his family, though." They sat in silence for a moment. "What do you think he meant? When he was . . . when he said he had 'stopped Marley'? Was he just . . .delirious?"  
  
"Who knows with Hobson," the big detective growled. "Something strange is always goin' on around him. It always bugged me, though the way they hushed it up, and threatened the kid to keep his mouth shut. He deserved some recognition for his part in saving the President's life! After we'd chased him all over the city, thinkin' he'd killed Harry Hawkes. I still can't believe I let that smooth talkin' creep pull the wool over my eyes like that. Hobson could'a been killed! Then, when it's all over, the department gets a pat on the back, and he gets a slap in the kisser. They didn't even offer to let him shake the hand of the man who's life he'd helped save! Bugged the crap outta me for months. Then Hobson tells me he preferred it that way. That he was only doing what needed to be done. If I live to see the next millennium, I'll never understand him."  
  
"What's to understand?" Marissa shrugged. "He's a good man who's just trying to do the right thing."  
  
"Yeah, but that 'right thing' always seems to land him up to his ears in trouble," the ex-cop said with a snorting laugh. "Like when he found out the DA was out to blackmail my own partner into framing me. Or when that Rose, or Lilly, broad got under his skin. First it almost cost him a bundle of cash, then it almost cost him his life when Rose's old boyfriend showed up. He's always landing feet first in stuff like that. And let's not forget that Hernandez/Stone business. Almost got his head blown off. And the time he came barging in and saved me from that falling light fixture. The time we did that Shakespeare thing. Still, I have to admit he did great in that play."  
  
"You all did," Marissa reminded him with a warm smile. "You got a standing ovation, remember?"  
  
They sat in companionable silence for a time. Occasionally, they were sure they had heard a moaning sound, but Gary never stirred.  
  
"You want to know what still haunts me about that Marley/Dobbs fiasco?" Crumb finally spoke up, unable to stand the silence any longer.   
  
"What?"  
  
"The look on the kid's face," he sighed. "We were taking Fishman in for questioning, and who should come trotting up but the Boy Wonder, here. He called my name, Marissa! And one of my men pulls a gun and aims it right at him. I'll never forget how he looked in that moment just before the car got between him and us. He looked . . .frightened, confused . . . and betrayed. He was coming to the police, to me, for help . . . and we almost killed him right there. I don't think I've ever seen anyone look so . . . so lost in my entire life."  
  
********************  
  
Half an hour later, Marissa had to give in to her own weariness. After the exhausting day they'd had yesterday, the tragic events of early that morning, she was almost ready to drop. Finally, Crumb convinced her to surrender her place to the next pair of visitors. He gently took her arm and led her to the door. She needed to stop by the bar and pick up Reilly, she reminded him. The poor dog was probably still in his corner.  
  
On the way out, they encountered an unexpected pair. Detectives Toni Brigatti and Paul Armstrong were waiting right outside the door.  
  
"Does anyone know what happened?" Armstrong asked, not bothering to hide the concern in his voice.   
  
"Best we can figure," Crumb sighed tiredly, "he was tryin' to change a light bulb at the head of the stairs goin' up to his room. One of the legs on the stepstool he used either slipped or broke, and he ended up on top of it at the bottom of the stairs. He may have gotten a shock from the light fixture, too. Between the EMTs, the docs', and us, we've jump-started his heart four times." His voice took on a sad, distracted tone. "The last time, they . . . um, they gave up on 'im. Declared him dead. Called the time, even. 4:42. Oh! He's okay, now," he hastened to add as Toni's face went six shades of pale. "He came back on his own. Gave us a hell of a scare, though. Now, we're just waitin' and watchin', hoping he'll wake up soon."  
  
"Can we . . .?"  
  
"Of course," Marissa replied with a wan smile. "In fact, the doctor we talked to awhile ago encourages it. He thinks that even patients in comas can hear, and are likely to come around more quickly if they have a familiar voice to guide them." She turned her sightless eyes directly on Toni. "I'm sure he'll be happy to hear . . . both of you." With that parting comment, she allowed Crumb to guide her down the hall.  
  
******************  
  
Toni went immediately to Gary's bedside. The sight of him lying there, so pale, almost bloodless, tore at her heart. He drove her crazy most of the time, mainly because she was never sure where she stood with him. It was like . . . he wanted to get closer to her, but something always held him back. Maybe this 'secret' that Paul was so obsessed about?   
  
"Marissa said we should . . . talk," Armstrong reminded her. "Got any ideas? Something besides 'shop' talk?"  
  
"Not a clue," Toni sighed as she unknowingly took the same chair that had held the other two women who were so important to Gary Hobson. "Outside of work, you and I don't exactly pal around much." She reached a slender hand over the rail and gently stroked the hair back from Gary's forehead. "At least now we know Ken wasn't yankin' our chains."  
  
For several minutes, they sat there; just watching the rise and fall of his chest under the thin hospital gown. From what Crumb had said, it was a miracle that he was alive at all.  
  
"So, um, how did you two meet?" Paul asked, un-nerved more than he cared to say by the silence.   
  
"Back when I was with the US Marshall's Office," Toni replied with a smile. "He was tryin' to date this little blonde at the time. Anyway, he plowed his way into the steam room where the Treasury had an agent about to get his cover, and his brains, blown all over the wall. Gary saves the guy's life by pushing him out of the way, but now, he's a material witness to attempted murder! So, what does he get instead of us saying 'Thank you, Mr. Hobson, for saving his life? You deserve a commendation for you're heroic act?' We haul him downtown for questioning. Then we threaten to charge him with obstruction of justice if he doesn't co-operate. Put him in protective custody. When he refused a safe house, insisting that he had to stay at his own place, they assigned me to baby-sit him. So, I moved in with him. As his bodyguard, Armstrong!" she added as he failed to conceal a smirk. "The next morning, while I'm taking a shower, he sneaks downstairs. As soon as I realized what had happened, I ran down to the bar, in a towel, gun drawn, just in time for him to save my life when his bar was shot up. There we were, me in nothing but a large bath towel, and him right on top of me! Of course, that's when Blondie walks in. Poor guy, she let him have it with both barrels. So did his partner. See, he couldn't tell anybody why I was there! So he had to let them think whatever they wanted! And there wasn't a thing he could do. Later, he talked me into letting him keep a lunch date with the blonde."  
  
Smiling, eyes closed, she absently stroked Gary's bandaged hand. She could still picture him as he had stood before her making his impassioned plea.   
  
"How did he win you over?"  
  
"By being honest," she told him evenly. "He said that he didn't want to suddenly find himself staring at the mirror when he's sixty-five and having to say, 'You've done a great job, but you forgot one thing,'" Tears welled up in her eyes as she remembered his exact words. In a choked voice, she continued. "He s-said . . . 'You forgot to get a life!' He wanted a normal life, Paul. I don't think he asked for any of the strange things that keep happening to him. He's just a good man who can't seem to stay out of trouble." She paused to wipe the tears from her eyes. "Later," she continued in a steadier voice, "after I'd transferred to the force, he showed up at an undercover operation I was running. My partner was hung up in traffic and couldn't get to the ship in time to pose as my husband. Then, who should show up just in the nick of time, wearing the 'wrong' nametag? Three guesses. And the first two don't count."  
  
Paul just shook his head with a quiet chuckle. This was sounding so familiar.  
  
"So he had to pose as my husband, instead. I hog-tied him into it with more threats." She leaned over to brush a stray lock of hair from his sweat-beaded brow. "You know, it never even occurred to me to ask him nicely. But, we had a jewel thief to catch."  
  
"Oh, yeah," Armstrong recalled. "The 'Iceman' business. I remember that case. Weren't you almost . . .?"  
  
"Almost cost the department a huge chunk of change!" she confirmed with a shudder. "If Gary hadn't figured it out and retrieved the necklace, I'd be walking a beat until I retired." Wordlessly, she turned over Gary's right hand to show a faint scar on the inside of his wrist. "You know how he got that?" Paul just shook his head. "You wouldn't. It wasn't in my report. I had been making the rounds, checking out the security in the ballroom, the exits, and so on. Eventually I ended up on the roof. I heard a noise, and went to check it out. This door, I dunno, maybe the latch was broken. Anyway, it flies open and . . . I go flying over the railing."  
  
"Christ, Toni!" Paul exclaimed, stunned. "You could've been killed! Why wasn't it in your report?"  
  
"Cause he asked me not to," she replied quietly, stroking the motionless arm. "There I was, hanging on by my fingernails, absolutely sure this was it. I was going to die. Then, I hear this voice calling my name. It was Hobson, and he sounded so . . . desperate. I yelled to let him know where I was. A moment later, he was climbing over the railing, onto a ledge that was only a few inches wide. And . . . he pulled me up. That sounds a lot easier than it was, believe me. While we caught our breathe, still on that tiny ledge, I asked him what he was doing up there. Not that I wasn't thrilled to see him. He just said, 'Well, the view's nice.'" Toni gave a tiny laugh, shaking her head. "The view's nice! His partner told me later that heights make him nervous. Can you imagine the courage it took for him to climb out on that ledge?"  
  
Or to crawl across from one roof top to another on a narrow ladder, Armstrong mused. That put a lot of things in a whole new perspective for him.  
  
"That was when I noticed the cut on his wrist," the tiny detective continued. "I took him back to the suite to clean it up. We talked, and . . . he finally agreed to pose as my husband for the ball that night." She certainly was not going to tell him what else almost happened. "He's really a very good dancer." She smiled wickedly as another image surfaced. "We had to switch partners so I could talk with the guy we had pegged as the 'Iceman.' Hobson had to dance with that Amber chick, or look stupid just standing there. A few minutes later, I'm looking over and he gives this huge . . .kinda . . .gulp! She'd grabbed his butt! Then she smiled and said something like, 'nice glutes.' I thought Hobson was gonna die! I didn't know whether to laugh or barge over and tell the hussy to get her mitts off 'my husband'!"  
  
"And Hobson was the only one to figure her for the 'Iceman'?" Paul asked, barely suppressing a grin at the image Brigatti had painted. God! He would have paid to see that!  
  
"The only one," she agreed. "She had that 'dumb bimbo' routine down to a tee. She had everyone dazzled with her good looks and wide-eyed innocence. Everyone but him. He told me later that she just seemed too . . . predatory was the term he used. That she came across, to him, as not being as dumb as she looked. And he was right. When he showed up later with the Lermontov diamond, they almost threw the book at him! But, I was able to convince the chief to back off until we'd fingerprinted the necklace. They found my prints, Gary's, and a third print that had been found at the scene of more than a dozen thefts across the country. Add that to the fact that Gary was nowhere near any of the other cities in the last three years, at least, and they had to believe him."  
  
"Did you ever catch up with 'Amber'?"  
  
"Sure," she shrugged. "Didn't you know? She got a presidential pardon for some work she did for the State Department, don't ask me what, and married his best friend."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Her name is now Jade Fishman," Brigatti continued in an off hand tone. "She's happily married and living in LA. That's a whole 'nother story I don't want to go into right now." She sat back and leveled a challenging stare at him. "Your turn. Where did you first run into our 'Man Of Mystery'?"  
  
Armstrong sat back with a sigh. This was not going to be pretty. "There was an apartment fire. Hobson turned in the alarm five minutes before the fire actually started. He goes around, pounding on doors, getting everyone out. Then, when everyone is clear, the witnesses said he got this funny, panicked look, and rushed back in. It turns out there was a homeless man sleeping on the roof. Hobson said later than he had 'heard a noise' and decided to check it out. He tried to get the man to cross over to the next roof with him by crawling on this narrow ladder." He nodded at Toni's pained look. "Yeah. Heights again. For someone who doesn't like heights, he sure seems to spend a lot of time in them. Anyway, the old man slipped. Hobson grabbed him and tried to hold on. Or so he said. Just looking at it from both sides, Brigatti! Keep that gun holstered! The man slipped from Hobson's grip and fell. Died instantly. To tell the truth, I never believed he was at fault. God! If you had been there to see his face! The man was in shock. Just totally . . .numb. When I questioned him later at his place, he was still sort of . . . distant. Like he was just going through the motions of being alive. It stirred my suspicions, and at the same time it . . . sent a chill up my spine. It was like talking to a dead man. The next day, he almost was. He had chased these two kids out of an abandoned carpet store. They got out, but the stairs collapsed under him. The kids started to go back to help, but he told them to leave while they could. So they did. Just before the building started caving in."  
  
"Well, obviously he survived." Brigatti remarked with a visible shudder.  
  
"It was hours before we knew that for sure," the tall detective sighed. "His partner, Marissa Clark, and that blonde you were talking about earlier, kept insisting that he was alive. Finally, after the rescue squad was ready to pack it up and send for the body retrieval team, they heard him calling for help. He must have been unconscious up until then. I was surprised to see him walk out on his own. And he didn't look so . . . numb as he had the last time I'd seen him. Tired, yes. But, like he had found a renewed purpose in life. It was weird."  
  
He paused to study the subject of their conversation. He could have sworn he'd seen an eyelid flicker.  
  
"The next time was right here, in the emergency room. He wasn't hurt," he hastened to add. "He had just rescued Meredith, my wife, from drowning. She'd passed out in the pool at her health club. That was when we first learned she was expecting our little girl. First thing I did was thank him . . . then I started grilling him. I wanted to know what he was doing at a women's health club. So he tells me he was checking it out for his girlfriend. My wife insists on meeting her, so he's trapped into bringing her over for dinner. She was the same blonde from the carpet store incident. If she was really his girlfriend, it was just before they broke up. You could tell things were really strained between them. He was nervous as a cat; barely touched his dinner. A day later, I see him and he still looks edgy. Asks me what I know about bombs, then says he saw something under this TV news reporter's car while looking for a contact lens. Sure enough, there was a bomb. But . . . I don't know . . . something just didn't ring true with Hobson. He was too evasive. Besides, he has 20/20 vision. Then, the next day, he's calling me up, saying that someone has planted a bomb at the 'Sun-Times'. I ask him how he knows, but he again avoids having to answer. Later, after we find the bomb, and give chase to the terrorists who planted it, we end up on the EL train. Meredith was also on that train. To make a long story short, Hobson saved the day again. Only, in doing so, he wasn't able to get to the train station in time to stop his girlfriend and her son from boarding the next train out of town."  
  
"And, after all that," Brigatti remarked acidly, "you still believed he was capable of killing Scanlon in cold blood. Or, what was it you said? Delusional? A menace to himself and everyone around him? What does the guy have to do to get your trust, Paul? Die for you?"  
  
"Nothing that drastic," Armstrong sighed. "Just tell me the truth."  
  
*******************  
  
Dee-dee-dee!  
  
Armstrong looked down at his pager, cursing as he recognized Winslow's cell phone number.   
  
"They probably want us back at the station," he sighed. "Time to alert the next shift."  
  
Brigatti was on her feet first, gesturing for him to keep his seat. "I'll check in," she told him. "You watch over Sleeping Beauty for a few more minutes."  
  
Her hand was inches from the door when she heard a hesitant knock. Perhaps the next shift was getting impatient. She pulled open the door to see a man in a dark uniform. A slender, dark haired woman stood at his side, holding the hand of a pretty little girl of about nine or ten.  
  
"I'm sorry," the man said. "We don't mean to intrude, but is this Gary Hobson's room?"  
  
"Yes it is," Brigatti assured them. "Are you friends of his?"  
  
The man and woman exchanged uneasy glances. "Not exactly," she replied. "But, my daughter claims she knows him. She recognized his picture on the news this morning." The woman shifted uncomfortably as she continued. "It's not the first time. Not long ago, when the police were hunting that man who was accused of murdering that reporter, Frank Scanlon, she was positive he was the same man who saved her life when she was six."  
  
"We tried to tell her that wasn't possible," the uniformed man added. "That a man capable of such an act wouldn't take the time to . . . to help a stranger, even a child. But, she was insistent. Then, when he was cleared, we thought, what if she's right? See, the man who rushed her to the hospital disappeared right after we got there, and we never got to thank him for taking care of our little girl. All anyone could tell us about him was that he'd said his name was Gary."  
  
"Amanda said he never left her for more than a few minutes," the woman continued. "Even held her hand while she was in surgery. The doctor told us that, if not for that man's tenacity, they might have overlooked a serious head injury that . . .that would've killed our baby."  
  
"Mo-om!" the little girl pouted. "I'm not a baby! Can I go look at him? Please? I'll know him if you just let me get a better look!"  
  
Brigatti and Armstrong exchanged puzzled looks, then Toni shrugged as if to say: 'They came this far. Why not?'  
  
"Sure," Paul replied with a smile. "Just try not to bump anything. They have him wired."  
  
The little girl had already mastered the 'duh!' glare. Which she turned on the big detective as she walked past. She circled around the bed until she had a clear view of the unconscious man's face. He looked older than she remembered, and his hair was all mussed up. But, it was him. The one she had once described as 'an angel' in a black jacket. Tentatively, she reached over the rail to stroke his cheek.  
  
"You need to wake up now," she murmured. "How can you hear me if you won't wake up?"  
  
"He can hear you," Toni commented softly. "Just tell him what you want him to know."  
  
"I want him to know I was here!" she replied tearfully. "Like he was for me! I want him to know that I remember what he did, and how he took care of me when no one else wanted to. They were all too busy! I-I want him to know th-that Amanda Bailey remembers Gary H-Hobson!"  
  
Mr. Bailey walked around the bed and gathered the weeping child into his arms. Tenderly, he picked her up and carried her towards the door. "I guess that answers our question," he commented with a strained smile. He shifted the little girl's weight to one side and dug into his jacket pocket with his free hand. The card he handed Brigatti had his work and home numbers in fine print below the logo of a national airline. "Please let us know when he's able to talk," he requested. "We have a lot to thank him for. And a lot of questions." Turning to his wife, he said quietly, "Let's go, honey."  
  
As the Bailey family made their exit, Toni Brigatti turned to her partner, her jaw clenched as she fought to keep her own emotions under control.   
  
"Kinda puts a new perspective on the man, doesn't it," she said in a tight voice. "Makes you wonder if his 'secret' is all that big a deal. Maybe he's just a man who cares . . . so . . . much, that he can't just stand by and let bad things happen if he can stop them. Does that make him crazy, Paul, or just compassionate?"  
  
"You still don't get it, Toni," Paul sighed wearily. "It's not what he knows or does that's got me on his case. It's how does he know?"  
  
**********************  
  
Bernie Hobson rubbed at his tired eyes, giving vent to a cavernous yawn. He and Lois had been camped out in Gary's room since just after supper the night before. The nurse had tried to get them to go home several times, but Lois had been adamant. She was not leaving Gary's side. Even the offer of a room just down the hall had not swayed her. She was not leaving this room again until their son woke up. And Bernie was not about to leave her alone.   
  
He reached over and pulled the wrap back up where it had slid off one shoulder. Lois had finally given in to her exhaustion a couple of hours ago, laying her head on the mattress, her cheek resting on Gary's right arm. His hand rested loosely on top of hers. It was a scene that tore at Bernie's heart. If Gary didn't wake up soon, he was going to be a basket case.   
  
He leaned over and brushed a lock of hair back from Lois' ear. "Sweetheart, I'm gonna go find some coffee," he whispered. "You want some?"  
  
"Um hmm," was her drowsy response. "Sounds good."  
  
"Be right back," he promised. A moment later, there was the quiet whoosh of the door swinging shut.  
  
"Um, hmm," Lois mumbled. She started to pull her hand out from under Gary's to rub the sleep out of her own eyes, thinking that maybe she should have taken them up on the offer of a bed. Her hand wouldn't move. Puzzled, she raised her head, prying open her sleep-glazed eyes. At the same moment, she felt a slight increase in the pressure on her hand as Gary's fingers curled around hers. Suddenly, Lois wasn't sleepy at all. Heart racing with renewed hope, she gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. With an agonizing slowness, his hand closed around hers. "Gary?" she asked in a hopeful whisper. "Sweetie, can you hear me? If you can hear, Gary, open your eyes. I need you to open your eyes, baby. Please!"  
  
"M'm? Wh-where . . .?"  
  
"You're in the hospital, Gary," she told him gently, hitting the call button at the same time. "Do you remember what happened?"  
  
"I-I fell?" he stammered drowsily, his voice barely above a whisper. "Th-the stool . . . stool slipped, I think. Hurts."  
  
"Where, Honey? Where does it hurt? Do you need something for pain?"  
  
Gary slowly shook his head, wincing at the pain which that ill-advised motion elicited. His eyelids fluttered as he tried rouse himself. "Jus' sore," he mumbled. "Headache. Ribs . . . sore." His brow wrinkled as he tried to think. "My leg. I . . . I broke . . . broke my leg. I f-felt it break! Why can't . . .? M'm, why . . . why can't I feel it n-now?"  
  
"Sshhh." Lois smoothed the hair from his too pale forehead. "The doctors said you might not be able to feel anything right away. You go back to sleep now. I'll be here when you wake up."  
  
"N-no." Gary turned dark, pleading eyes to meet her anguished blue ones. "T-tell me, Mom. The t-truth. I know . . . know my b-back . . . How b-bad?"  
  
"We don't know, sweetie," she told him, her voice cracking. "We just don't know."  
  
********************  
  
Bernie and Lois sat in the waiting room of the radiology department. Or, at least, Bernie sat. Lois was wearing a track in the carpet. After Gary had finally drifted back to sleep, she had decided to find him some answers. Finally, his doctor had arranged for them to talk with the consulting neurologist. For about the fourth time in as many minutes, Lois glanced at her watch.  
"You're just gonna wear yourself out, Lois," Bernie sighed. "The man will be here as soon as he can. Gary may not be his only patient."  
  
"That's not helping, Bernie," Lois grumbled. "Gary may not be his only patient, but he's the one I'm concerned about right now." Her face twisted in misery as she finally took a seat next to her husband. "You didn't see his eyes, Bernie. He knew. He knew that his back was injured, and . . . I think he's afraid he'll . . . he'll never . . ." She took Bernie's hand in both of hers and leaned her head on his shoulder as she fought back another up-welling of tears. "It's just not fair for him to suffer like this! He's done everything that blasted . . . paper . . . has asked of him. He's gone way beyond anything Lucius Snow had to do. I've had Crumb check. Snow never had a police record. He was never hunted like an animal! But, Gary . . . he's had to run for his life twice! No, three times! And been held hostage, shot at, beaten, almost blown up . . . Why him? Why does he have to suffer so much to help others? Why . . . Why couldn't 'they' let him delegate a little? Just to lighten the load."  
  
"We don't know that the paper had anything to do with this, Honey," Bernie reminded her. "He was just changing a light bulb! Coulda happened to anyone." He put a finger under her chin, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. "Anyone."  
  
"Bernie Hobson," she said, "if you believe that, I have a bridge we need to talk about. In Brooklyn. Small deposit, easy payments, and no closing costs."  
  
"Mr. and Mrs. Hobson?"  
  
They looked up to see a slender, balding man of about average height, wearing a white lab coat. He had a wide mouth that looked as if he smiled a lot. He wasn't smiling, now, however. In one hand, he held a chart that he was studying with a concerned frown. Lois just knew it had to be Gary's. She suddenly felt a chill, as if a cold hand had wrapped itself around her heart.  
  
*********************  
  
"Gary, talk to me." Marissa pleaded. "I know you're awake and can hear me. You have to at least tell me to go away or I'll sit here until you do."  
  
Gary gave no reply. Truthfully, he didn't trust himself to speak just yet. His emotions were still all over the place. He was overjoyed to be alive. Especially after being told how close he had come to dying. Yet, that lack of sensation below his hips . . . He knew his left leg was broken, could remember very clearly the pain as it had twisted under him on the stairs. He could still hear the crack of the bone. Over the past couple of hours, everything had come back to him. Which his doctor had been quick to point to as a good sign that he had suffered very little damage from his head injury. Still, the mind usually blocked out such memories. It was like . . . like he was hanging on to something he would never have again. And, if he had any doubts, there the damned thing was, immobilized by a splint, elevated in a sling, a drainage tube leading from the surgical dressings to a receptacle hanging from the bed frame.  
  
"Please, Gary. At least let me know how you're feeling!"  
  
"Numb," he told her in a raspy monotone. "I'm feeling . . . numb. How am I supposed to feel?" he asked, his voice rising in pitch, but not volume. "My legs . . . How can I help others, if I can't help myself? How do I stop a bomb or . . . or a fire from a wheelchair? How . . . how do I stop someone else from . . . from taking their own life if I want to die so bad it hurts?"  
  
"You'll do whatever it takes, Gary," Marissa told him sternly. "You've never been a quitter. Somehow, you always manage to find an answer to every problem that's been thrown at you since . . .this . . . business began. Remember when you couldn't see? You were given a glimpse into a world I've lived in since I was a child. It happened for a reason, Gary. Everything that happens to you is for a reason. We just don't know what it is yet. Don't ask me why, but I think that, as soon as you've accomplished some . . .task, you will walk again."  
  
"Yeah?" Gary grunted. "And what was my task then? To save Nate from burning to death? I could've done that a lot easier if I was able to see!"  
  
"I don't think so," she replied. "I think it was so you could be saved by Cameron. Don't you remember how different he was later? You brought out a side of him he didn't know existed. By him saving you, you saved his soul. That's a rare and wonderful thing, Gary. But, it's something you've done many times. And you learned something about yourself as well. You were able to put your trust in a stranger. More than that, he was one of the same people who had caused you to be blinded in the first place. That took more than faith. You had to forgive him before you could trust him."  
  
Gary turned his head to stare out the window in silence. He didn't want to hear this. Not right now, anyway. The memory of that time was still sharp and clear in his mind. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the heat of the flames, feel the acrid smoke eating at his lungs, taste the bitterness of it as it filled his mouth and nostrils. But, he couldn't see the flames. And, now he felt that same feeling of helplessness, of having to depend on others for his well-being. It ate away at the very core of his soul. Would he be depending on the welfare of others for the rest of his life?  
  
"Well, this is a cheery sight!"  
  
Slowly, Gary turned back toward the door. More memories came rushing back. A dark night on a lonely bridge, a speeding car. Pain! Without conscious thought, he brought his free hand up to gingerly massage the back of his head. "Doc Zimmerman?"  
  
"Ah, you remember me! Good, saves time," the genial physician smile. Lois and Bernie just a few steps behind, wearing carefully neutral faces. "Now, what's this I hear of you trying to fly down some stairs? Last I recall, you hadn't sprouted wings . . . yet." he held up Gary's chart as he crossed the room. "Good afternoon, Miss Clark. Well, Mr. Hobson, the results of your tests are promising," he told his patient. "But, I still need a little 'hands on' before I draw any conclusions." He pulled a little rubber hammer from his pocket. "Actually, I'd have preferred to do this prior to your tests, but it's hard to do this to someone who's unconscious. Look at the ceiling and tell me what you feel."  
  
He took Gary's right foot in one hand and, pressing the metal handle of the hammer deeply into the tender flesh, he drew it slowly upwards. Inwardly, he was pleased to feel a slight . . .twitch as the toes tried to curl. Keeping his face neutral, he looked to his patient. "Well? Anything?"  
  
Eyes fixed on the ceiling, Gary frowned in concentration. "It almost . . .no," he sighed. "It was almost like I felt something for a moment, but it could've been just wishful thinking"  
  
Zimmerman switched his attention to the other foot. He again placed his hand on top of the foot, and brought the instrument up to the instep. This time, however, he only went through the motions without actually touching metal to flesh.  
  
Gary shook his head dejectedly. "Nothing."  
  
The doctor quickly jabbed the metal handle into his instep and raked it upwards. Again the toes twitched.  
  
Gary's forehead creased in puzzlement. There had been . . . something. Just a distant, fleeting . . . impression of sensation. But, nothing he could pin down as true feeling.  
  
"Did you do something just then?" he asked, trying not to sound hopeful.  
  
"I did, indeed," Zimmerman smiled. "What did you feel?"  
  
"I-it was kinda like . . ." Painfully Gary wracked his brain for a way to describe what he had . . . felt. "It was a tickle . . . kinda. Only real . . . distant. Like there was this thick layer of something in the way. O-or like it was happening to someone else. Does that . . . ? I mean . . . could I . . .?"  
  
Zimmerman pulled a stool close to Gary's bed, his face arranged in a carefully neutral smile. "It means that we are not without hope," he told his patient. "The MRI shows some swelling just below the area where the spinal cord branches out into the nerve bundles that serve the lower extremities. Your legs. So long as the swelling persists, your sensory and motor functions will be impaired. But, once the swelling subsides, you should start getting some feeling back. If it doesn't persist too long."  
  
"And . . .and because I can feel a little . . .?" Gary asked, all too aware that everyone in the room was waiting breathlessly for the answer.  
  
"It's a little too early to say just yet," the doctor hesitated, "but . . . the swelling may be starting to ease up a bit. I'd like to wait a few weeks and repeat the MRI. That should give us an idea of how fast it's subsiding, and what kind of time frame we may be looking at."  
  
"Time frame," Lois Hobson repeated. "What sort of 'time frame' are we looking for?"  
  
"As to how long before we can get him back on his feet," was the welcome reply. "Now, don't break out the champagne just yet," he cautioned. "We could be looking at weeks, months, or even years. It depends on more than just the spinal damage. There's also the broken femur to deal with. Not to mention the electrocution, and the fact that you tried to check out on us a few times. Plus, they tell me you're still a few pints low. The most important factor, however, is you, Mr. Hobson. How determined you are to walk again, and how much co-operation you're willing to give."  
  
Gary stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts in turmoil, his heart racing. He could walk again? That was great, wonderful! But, what about . . .? No, he couldn't think about that now. Whatever 'task' Marissa felt might be in store, he would deal with as soon as it presented itself. It was all connected somehow, he believed. He had to believe. Otherwise, none of this made any sense. He suddenly realized that the doctor had said something.  
  
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "What . . .?"  
  
"I said," Zimmerman repeated, "that you could be upgraded from 'critical' to 'guarded' condition by this time tomorrow if everything remains stable. And if you continue to co-operate with the nurses. Your doctor tells me that you've been a little . . . difficult."  
  
Gary's pale features took on a pinkish glow as the doctor's meaning sank in. He held up his bandaged hands.  
  
"I can understand the need to . . . the personal hygiene, and such," he replied. "And I'm not exactly . . . I mean . . . it's kinda hard to . . . with these." He shot an uncomfortable glance towards his parents and Marissa.   
  
"Perhaps we should wait outside," Marissa suggested, rising from her seat. She tried hard to suppress a tiny smile, but it slipped through. Poor Gary! He embarrassed so easily! She herded his parents out the door ahead of her.   
  
"Just a second, Doc," Bernie quickly spoke up. "I'd like to know if he can still . . ."  
  
Marissa and Lois each grabbed an arm and dragged a loudly protesting Bernie out the door.   
  
"Wait! I wanna ask if he's gonna be able to . . ." Bernie protested.  
  
"This is hard enough on him as it is," Lois hissed to her husband. "Let's not make it any worse!"  
  
"Thank God," Gary sighed as soon as the door closed. "I was sort of afraid Dad was gonna ask about . . . He's almost as fixated on grandkids as Mom is. Only he gets a little bit more . . . graphic."  
  
"Ah, I see." Zimmerman nodded in understanding, a quick grin flickering across his generous mouth. "He would be the one to ask if you could still . . ."  
  
"Exactly," Gary interjected hurriedly. "Anyway, um, I pretty much have to lay here and let them do what . . .whatever they want to me. How am I being difficult?"  
  
"You refused your medication this morning."  
  
"I didn't refuse," Gary protested. "I wanted to know what they were about to give me, that's all. And what it was for. The nurse just smiled and started to give me the damned shot anyway. I told her . . . told her I knew my rights and didn't have to take any drugs if I chose not to. Then I said for her not to bring anymore needles around me until she could tell me what was in them. I still have that right, don't I, Doc?"  
  
The doctor sat back as he comprehended Gary's situation. He needed at least some . . . control over what was being done to him.  
  
"The medication was a mild painkiller," he informed his patient. "I don't know if you were told, but you received some pretty deep second-degree burns on your hands, plus some cracked ribs. They can be extremely painful. Your doctor probably wants to spare you that."  
  
"I've been burned before, Doc," Gary responded evenly. "I've had worse than cracks, too. I already know how bad it can get. And, I can't feel my legs at all. So, could you please ask them not to bring any more painkillers? I need . . . I need to feel . . .something. You know what I mean? I need to . . . to feel!"  
  
He could see how important this was to his patient. The pleading, desperate look Gary turned his way spoke more loudly than his tone. And this was possibly the only ounce of real control he had over his situation.  
  
"I'll talk with your doctor," he conceded. "But, on only one condition. If the pain interferes with your recovery . . ."  
  
"If I need it, I'll ask for it," Hobson quickly agreed, relief filling his voice. "Thanks. So, um, you heard from Dr. Marks, lately? Doing well in her new job?"  
  
"Doing quite well," Zimmerman smiled. "She asked about you recently. Wanted to know if you were still having those 'premonitions.' Are you?" At Gary's uncomfortable silence, he nodded. "I see. Still having to make some really tough decisions, I'll bet. So why didn't you know about . . .this?"  
  
Gary chewed on his lower lip as he considered how to answer. He trusted Dr. Zimmerman, to a certain extent. More than anyone else outside his family and a tight circle of friends. The neurologist had been very sympathetic to his situation the last time they had met. He had offered to listen to whatever Gary was willing, or needed, to talk about.  
  
"It's . . . it's kinda complicated, Doc," he stammered. "Sometimes things . . . they have to happen so I can be someplace I need to be. Like . . . like with Rachel. I needed to meet her. To stop that first surgery, I think. And to . . . I don't know how to explain any of this so it makes sense," he sighed, frustrated. "And I don't know why this had to happen," he added, waving a hand at his legs. "I just have to keep believing that there is a reason. Otherwise, I'll end up just as crazy as everyone thinks I am. When . . . no, if that happens, if I start seriously doubting myself . . . I won't have any hope left at all."  
  
********************  
  
It was snowing. Big, fluffy, lazy drifts of whiteness. It was a magical time when anything could happen. Even miracles. Gary was a child again, running and laughing as the snow fell in feathery softness all around him. The silence rang with his joyful exuberance. In the distance, he heard a voice calling his name. 'Mom?' He ran in great leaps and bounds towards the voice.   
  
Suddenly, the snow wasn't just drifting anymore, and he was no longer a child. A strong wind began to blow, pushing him back the way he had come. The familiar voice began to recede, growing fainter and fainter with each struggling step. He could no longer tell which direction the voice was coming from! Gary fought hard, pushing himself against the almost solid wall of freezing white, only to have it dance around him in a dizzying swirl! The wind blew faster and harder, the once fluffy softness now a stinging, biting force! It was getting harder to move. His legs had become mired in a deep drift of icy crystals. Stubbornly, he tried to claw his way out, but the snow just kept piling higher and higher!  
  
"Gary? Gary, wake up, sweetie. You're having a bad dream, sweetheart."  
  
Gary snapped awake with a violent shudder. For a moment, all he could do was lay there, his eyes wide and fearful, as he stared, unseeing, at the white ceiling! His breath came in ragged, panting gasps, forcing air into tortured lungs! Gradually, though, his racing heart slowed to a less frantic pace, his pulse no longer pounding like fierce jungle drums in an old Tarzan movie. It was just a dream. He wasn't being buried alive in a frozen wasteland.   
  
Memory came back in a rush. The light, the stairs, falling . . . The rest came back in a horrifying wave. Waking up, lying on his own grave. Dad. The ghost of himself as a child. The hospital, and Mom . . . The wild, frantic ride back to . . . to his grave. And . . . the rest.   
  
Trembling, Gary squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the flood of images. It was no use. It had all been too real to ignore or dismiss. He knew he could never explain it to anyone else. There was no way he could even hope, let alone expect, anyone to believe what he knew to be true, when he had such a hard time believing it himself. All he knew was, during the hour or two he had been laying there, bleeding to death on his own stairway, he had once again been sent on a sojourn back in time. A journey that, for him, had lasted several days. All the pain, physical and emotional, all the bitter frustration, desperation and despair hit him like a physical blow. Tears flowed from the corners of his eyes as his body shook in a silent reaction to the turmoil in his mind.   
  
Something soft touched his face, wiping away the moisture that flowed so freely from his eyes. With a shuddering sigh, Gary finally pried them open to see his mother and Nurse Corso leaning over him. His Mom still had a tissue in her hand, and a look of concern on her tired face. Next to her stood a little girl, whose heart-shaped face mirrored her concern. Something about her tugged at Gary's memory, but, his mind was too full of frustration and terror to grasp who she was. Then it hit him. Another time when he faced seeming impossibilities. A choice between one life . . . and almost two hundred.  
  
"'Manda?" he murmured. The child's face split into a huge smile when he said her name. "Amanda B-Bailey?"  
  
"You do remember!" she almost crowed with delight. Amanda turned to look over Gary to someone just beyond his sight. "I told you it was him!"  
  
Slowly, Gary turned his head to see a man and woman standing by the door. At their daughter's joyous announcement, they approached the bed. He remembered them, also. The woman had asked directions to Recovery, and the man had come rushing in less than a minute later, an airline pilot's cap in one hand.   
  
Assured that her patient wasn't having a heart attack, Nurse Corso smiled at the little girl and turned to go. "Let me know when you're ready for your next shot," she told Gary.  
  
"Hunh? Oh, sure." He turned back to the couple by the door. "C-captain Bailey?" Gary stammered, still caught halfway between dream and memory. He closed his eyes again as a violent shudder coursed through his body. God! He was so cold! "S-sorry," he said, giving them a weak smile of apology. He reached for the bed controls, only to be reminded of his injured hands.   
  
"What do you need , Hon," his mom asked.  
  
"To get these . . .bandages off," he grumbled, casting a sheepish look Amanda's way. "But, I'll settle for being able to sit up a little." Fighting the urge to grin at his embarrassment, Lois worked the controls until Gary indicated he was comfortable. "Thanks, Mom. How ya been, Amanda?"  
  
"I'm fine," she replied. "Why'd you go away so fast? I wanted you to meet my Mom and Dad, to tell 'em what you did, but you'd already gone. Where'd you go? And why didn't you come visit me? I was in that place a long time!"  
  
Gary had to pause before answering to swallow the ice chips his mom had shoveled into his mouth the moment he had opened it. Not that he didn't appreciate the relief to his dry, raspy throat, but a little warning would've been nice!  
  
"Sowwy," he mumbled around a second mouthful, shooting Lois a reproachful look. "Shanks, Mom," he repeated. He swallowed before continuing. "That's plenty." Gary waved a bandaged hand towards her. "Have you guys met, yet?"  
  
"We've spent the last half-hour getting to know each other, Dear," Lois told her son. "Captain and Mrs. Bailey have been telling me all you did for Amanda. Why didn't you ever mention it?" Her voice held a slight edge that said, 'Secrets? Again?'  
  
Gary squirmed uncomfortably under the four penetrating gazes. Why did he always have to undergo a third degree, just for doing the right thing?  
  
"I, um, I did visit, Amanda," he finally replied to her second question. "But, you were either asleep or had a lot of other . . . I didn't want to intrude on you and your friends, since they could only stay a short time."  
  
"But, why did you disappear?" Mrs. Bailey asked. "Amanda and that surgeon told us all that you did for her, even after they threw you out and threatened to call the police. About how you shamed him into looking at her as a person, instead of just notes on a chart. My baby almost died, Mr. Hobson," she added in a voice choked with emotion. "She would have died if not for you. And we never got to thank you!"  
  
"Until today," Captain Bailey added, putting a supporting arm around his wife's shoulders. "I don't know how you knew what to look for. Or, for that matter, that I'm a captain." He glanced down at his civilian attire. "And I really don't care. You saved something very precious to me. There aren't enough words . . ."  
  
"It was my pleasure," Gary told them, giving Amanda a quick, shy smile. "Just glad everything turned out okay."  
  
Captain Bailey looked at his watch. "We've got to go," he said. "I've just enough time to change before my next flight." He held out one hand to his daughter.  
  
"But, he just woke up!" she pleaded. "Can't I stay? Just a little longer? Please?"  
  
"No, Amanda," her mom replied firmly. "I'll bring you back after school tomorrow. Now, say goodbye and let's go."  
  
Pouting, Amanda turned towards Gary. Then, her eyes took on a mischievous gleam and a slow grin spread across her face. She threw her arms around Gary's neck and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "I won't tell them," she whispered.  
  
Surprised, Gary whispered back, "Tell 'em what?"  
  
"That you're an angel." Then she just as quickly let go and scooted around the bed to her parents. With a last wave and a smile, she was gone.   
  
Gary stared at the empty doorway in puzzlement. "Did you hear what she said?" he asked his mom. "She thinks I'm an angel!"  
  
"Well, aren't you?"  
  
******************  
  
Gary found himself sleeping a lot. There just wasn't that much else to do. Amanda was able to come around only after school. Daytime TV pretty much left him cold, except for some of the talk shows. Plus, he was finding it difficult to even channel surf. The bandages on his hands made it hard to hold the remote. And, until his hands were healed enough to take the abuse, he could not start rehab.   
  
Rehab. Just the sound of the word set his teeth on edge. It just wasn't the same as 'therapy.' Therapy, to him, was someone helping him keep up his muscle tone through massage and exercises. Rehab was . . .giving up. It was learning how to deal with what could still turn out to be a permanent condition. Still, he was determined to give it his best shot. It didn't matter, really, if it was only for a few months, a few years or, God forbid, the rest of his life. He would have to know his strengths as well as his limitations if he was to continue to receive the Paper. So far, his parents had dealt with it admirably. Ultimately, however, he knew it was still his responsibility. No matter what.  
  
"Gar! I can't believe this! Go away for a coupla months and what happens?"  
  
Startled out of his reverie, Gary looked up at the, oh, so familiar voice. "Chuck? When . . . How? I mean . . ."  
  
"A light bulb, Gar?" his best friend asked with a pained look. "You yank people from in front of moving cars everyday. Walk out on ledges to stop suicides about once a week. And hang off the sides of speeding trucks like one of those stupid dolls with the suction cups on their feet. Then you get laid up changing a light bulb?"  
  
Gary had to fight down a sheepish grin. It did sound a little absurd when put in those terms. "I was out-numbered," he tried to excuse himself. "There were three of them. The light, the stairs, and the stool was in on it, too."  
  
"And the stairs just reached up and grabbed you?"  
  
"Exactly!" Gary exclaimed, waving his hands in emphasis. "Swatted me like a fly!"  
  
Chuck reached out and took one of the bandaged appendages, giving a sideways look at the injured leg. His usually jovial face was creased with concern.   
  
"Crumb said you . . .that they couldn't . . ." he swallowed convulsively, his voice suddenly low and solemn. "What was it like? I mean . . .what did you see?"  
  
Gary looked up at the ceiling as he tried to find words to describe the experience. "I don't remember much," he finally said. "It was like . . . floating. Like I was somewhere near the ceiling looking down on . . .on myself. I could see everything that was going on. Hear the doctors and nurses calling out for one thing or another. It was like . . . like I was there . . . and not there, if you know what I mean. I could hear Mom and Marissa. They were crying, and calling my name. Then . . .there was . . . There was this light, a brightness sorta. And . . .then I was back in my body and someone, Mom, I think, was screaming for the doctor. The rest is kinda hazy. I don't remember much about the next coupla days. I could hear . . . I could hear people talking about me, sometimes. Like they were remembering stuff. I guess they weren't sure I was gonna make it. But . . . mostly I just had this . . . feeling. Like . . . like a warm blanket being spread over me. I don't think I've ever felt so safe, or so . . . loved in my life.  
  
"No angels offering ya a lift in a cosmic caddy?" Chuck asked in a disappointed voice. "Cheez, what a rip off! If anyone rated an escort, I'd think it'd be you."  
  
"I don't think it works that way," Gary chuckled. "For some reason, I got the impression that I was being sent back, that I still had a lot of work to do."  
  
"You were rejected?"  
  
"No, just postponed," Gary explained with a wry grin. "It seems the Paper doesn't choose just anybody to do its dirty work. I was chosen twenty-four years ago. And my replacement is only ten. So I have to stick around at least 'til she's out of high school."  
  
"That sucks. Don't get me wrong, Gar," Chuck hastily added when Gary gave him a pained look. "I just mean, that Sam guy from New York was able to retire and pass on his Paper. It would be nice if you could look forward to a few years to kick back and relax in your old age."  
  
"Seems like Chicago plays by a different set of rules," Gary sighed wistfully.   
  
"Well, that leg won't be broke forever," Chuck tried to console his friend. "And you'll need to kick back and chill for a while 'til you're back up to snuff. Why don't you come out to the Coast, stay with Jade and me for a few weeks.? We can show you the sights, laze on the beach, go water skiing, surfing. All the things we always wanted to do and never got to. Horseback riding. Remember how much you used to love to ride? Stables everywhere. I can set you up with this guy who trains Arabians for show!"  
  
"Chuck."  
  
"Or we could go to the mountains, do some hiking," Chuck went on, not catching the change in his friend's tone. "Or rock climbing. Jade's big on rock climbing for some reason. Must've come in handy in her old line of work."  
  
"Chuck!"  
  
"Mountain bikes! Get us a couple of those dirt bikes and hit the back trails! That'll be great! Go fishing on one of those little lakes you can't reach by road!"  
  
"Chuck! I can't!" Gary finally shouted. "I can't walk, Chuck!" he continued in a quieter voice. "I can't . . .feel my-my legs. Not much anyway." Seeing his best friend's stunned expression, he asked, "Didn't anyone tell you?"  
  
"No" Chuck replied in a near whisper. "We . . . Jade and I, we just came straight here from the airport. She stopped to talk with . . . Your mom didn't have a chance . . .God, Gar, I'm so sorry! I never . . . I mean . . . this is terrible! How could this . . . to you of all people! It's just . . . No way this can be happening!"  
  
Gary made little hushing gestures with one hand while he awkwardly raised the head of the bed with the other. Chuck either didn't see them or chose to ignore the attempt to calm his rambling speech. Gary tried to get the distraught little man to stop pacing, and look at him, but Chuck was on a roll.  
  
"This isn't fair," he was saying as he frantically paced the length of the room. "No way this can be happening to you! Not over a stupid light bulb! I mean, when you got hit by that car, I could see it happening then. Worried the hell out of me 'til you woke up. Or when you fell off that scaffolding and broke your leg. Coulda happened then. But it didn't! No, you had to go and change a freakin' light bulb!"  
  
"Chuck!" Gary snapped, exasperated. "Would you please shut up and come here? You're making me dizzy with all that . . . Could you at least stand in one place? Thank you! Now, before you go off on another rant . . ."  
  
"I wasn't ranting!" Chuck protested, his back to Gary.  
  
"Yes you were, now shut up. It's my turn to talk," he replied. "Where was . . . Oh, yeah. It's not hopeless. But, it may be . . . it may be a long time before I'm back on my feet. A long time. Months, at least. M-maybe years. We just won't know until . . .until it happens. In the meantime . . ."  
  
"In the meantime, what happens with the Paper?" Chuck asked in a choked voice. "Are your folks gonna have to take over for the duration?"  
  
"No," Gary assured him. "I'll have to learn to navigate on wheels for a while. But, there's still plenty I can do. I might even get around faster."  
  
"How do you figure that?" Chuck sniffled, wiping his eyes. Was he crying? Gary wondered.  
  
"Well, I can park in the handicapped zones," he offered. "And, for the short haul, at least, wheels are faster than feet. I've seen one guy get up to sixty, and I swear he takes corners at fifty-five." Yep, there came the handkerchief. "Could you at least look at me, Chuck? I didn't turn into a wart faced troll, did I? Does . . . does this . . . ch-change things between us? Do . . . do you think I'm . . . I'm less of . . . less of a man . . . be-because of . . . of this?"  
  
That got his attention! Chuck spun around to face his friend at last, to reveal tears streaming down his startled face.  
  
"Gar! How could you even think . . .?" He rushed over to sit on the edge of Gary's bed, pulling his friend into a tight embrace. "God, no!" he sniffed. "I never. . .You're the best friend a guy like me could ever hope to have! And more man, in or out of a chair, than Chuck Norris and Arnold Schwarzenegger put together. If you say you can do this, then God help whoever tries to stand in your way!"  
  
Gary awkwardly wrapped his arms around his quietly sobbing friend, gently patting him on the back and making soothing 'there there' noises as he finally released his own tears.  
  
That was the way Bernie and Lois found them, just moments later, as they escorted Jade into the room. Then it was Gary's turn for a surprise when he got a good look at the ex-jewel thief.  
  
"Wow, Jade!" he exclaimed, letting go of Chuck and wiping the moisture from his reddened eyes. "Congratulations! Both of you! Chuck, why didn't you tell me you're about to be a dad? When's the baby due?"  
  
"Any day now," Jade sighed as she carefully lowered herself into a chair. "And not a moment too soon." She placed one hand on her swollen abdomen. "These two take turns pummeling my kidneys."  
  
"Twins?" Gary's face split into a broad grin. "Chuck! You dog! That . . . that's incredible! Do you know what they are yet? Boys, girls, one of each?"  
  
"One of each," Chuck told his friend, drying his own face. It was just like Gary to shift focus away from himself as soon as possible. The man could not bear to be the center of attention. It gave him hives, or something. "And, no, I will not be in the delivery room! I love Jade very much, and I intend to be the best father I can be, but I have to draw the line at the door on this one."  
  
"Chuck's got this thing about . . . body fluids," Gary told his parents with a chuckle. "Freaked him out big time to be stuck in an elevator with a woman who, coincidentally, was also expecting twins!"  
  
"Freaked out! I passed out!" his friend reminded him. "If Gar hadn't showed up when he did, that lady would've had to deliver those kids herself!" 'There!' Chuck thought. 'Get out of that one!'  
  
"You delivered twins?" Bernie exclaimed. "Way to go, son! Why didn't you ever tell us?"  
  
"All I did was catch 'em as they came out," Gary mumbled self-consciously, ducking his head to hide the color he felt burning in his cheeks. "And tie off the, um, you know. Anyway, it was Chuck's big moment. I just pinch-hit for him."   
  
"Don't worry, Gary," Jade said with a laugh. "I'm not going to put you in that position," she promised. "Gary and Alexandria will be born in a hospital with a qualified doctor in attendance."  
  
"Wh-what did you call them?" Gary asked, uncertain he had heard right.   
  
"My daughter is Alexandria," Chuck told him, "because Jade likes names that are also precious stones. And, somehow, I just can't get my teeth into 'Ruby' or 'Pearl Fishman'."  
  
"B-but the boy?"  
  
"After you of course," Jade smiled. "Who'd you think we'd name our first-born after? After all, we need someone to look after our children if something should happen to us! Feel up to the job?"  
  
Gary was speechless. Godfather. Chuck and Jade wanted him to be like a godfather or an 'uncle' to their twins. Suddenly his heart felt so full, it could burst at any moment! Choking back a fresh flow of tears, Gary tried to change the subject.  
  
"You, um, you plan to . . . to have 'em here? In Chicago, I mean," he stammered. "W-will you be in town that long?"  
  
"Probably," Jade told him. "We intend to be here until you're able to go home."  
  
"That long?" he said with a grimace. He shook his head sadly, holding up his burned hands. "It'll be a few more days before these are uncovered. And another month at least before this leg is healed enough for anything but massage therapy. But, I can start . . . can start rehab as soon as they put the cast, or splint, or whatever on in a coupla days."  
  
"What kinda . . . well, 'social' life will you have?"  
  
"Chuck!" Lois exclaimed, her face scarlet. "What kind of question is that?"  
  
"An honest one," Bernie spoke up. "I'm wondering the same thing."  
  
A voice from the door asked, "Wondering what?"  
  
'Saved!' Gary sent a heartfelt 'thank you!' heavenward, as he turned to face this new distraction. "Chuck," he squeaked. "Um, Chuck, you remember Dr. Zimmerman."  
  
"The guy who unscrambled Gar's brain a coupla years ago," Chuck explained to his wife. "How's it been, doc?"  
  
"Reasonably well," the doctor smiled. He eyed Jade's condition with an air of concern. "Obstetrics is up one floor," he commented dryly. He turned to Chuck. "You're a lucky man, Mr. Fishman. Now, what were you wanting to know?"  
  
"If Gary can . . . you know."  
  
"C'mon, Chuck!" Gary pleaded. "Have a heart! Ignore 'im, doc. He's . . ."  
  
"I wanna know, too," Bernie insisted. "Your mother and I have a right to know if . . ."  
  
"Please! Mom, make him stop!"  
  
"Don't you want to know, Gary?" Jade asked with a mischievous grin.  
  
"No!" Gary practically shouted. "I don't want to know!"   
  
"If he's still able to 'get lucky'," Chuck blurted.  
  
Zimmerman never batted an eye. "Depends," he replied.  
  
"On what?" Lois asked, as Gary slid the blanket over his head. 'No!' he thought. 'She had to ask!'  
  
"Was he 'lucky' before?"  
  
*****************  
  
"You can come out now, Gary," Zimmerman told him, perching on the side of the bed. "Everyone's gone. I promise."  
  
"No," Gary said in a small, petulant voice.  
  
"It's alright to be embarrassed," the doctor tried again. "It is, after all, a very personal question. And, I'm sorry I made light of it. But, it was still one that needed to be asked. Don't you want to know?"  
  
"Not anymore," Gary grumbled from under the covers. "Go away. Please." The covers shifted as if he were trying to get comfortable.  
  
"The issue can't be put off forever," Zimmerman tried to reason with him.  
  
"Oh, yes it can."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Frustrated, Gary flung the covers down. "Because . . . because it's something that should only matter to me and . . . and one other person," he explained angrily. "The m . . . m-mother of my children. I've never just . . . It's got to mean something besides . . . If I . . . we . . . the two of us, aren't . . . then we have no business . . . God! Why am I even talking about this?" He jerked the covers over his head once again and flopped back in the bed. "Just tell everyone I'm fine and to please . . . go . . . home."  
  
"There's a simple, easy way to find out," Zimmerman offered. He was rewarded with a pair of dark eyes peering cautiously over the covers.  
  
"There is?" he asked hopefully.  
  
"Sure! With a little visual aid from the sperm bank . . ." The eyes vanished.  
  
"Go . . . away!"  
  
*******************  
  
Dr. Zimmerman emerged from Gary's room, his expression grim. He strolled over to the small group standing a few feet away. Lois and Bernie Hobson were arguing heatedly in whispers. Chuck stood next to the chair he had found for Jade. The pregnant woman just sat with her head leaning against the wall, her eyes closed.  
  
"That is a scene that I think we should avoid in the future," he told them. "Right now, his self esteem is extremely fragile. It would be very easy for him to slip into depression. We . . . meaning all of us, need to avoid that. Before, if a subject became too embarrassing for him, he could leave the room. At this time, he has no option but to stay. What the five of us just did to him was cruel. We didn't mean for it to be, but it was. In the future, I suggest that we give a little more consideration to Gary's sensibilities. For his sake."  
  
Lois looked up at her husband. "We should go back in there and apologize," she told him.  
  
"No. You shouldn't," the physician advised. "Let it drop. Give him time to get his feelings sorted out. All of you, just go home, out to dinner, whatever. Let Gary have a little space. For the next several months, he's going to be moody, frustrated, angry. It's going to take time for him to sort out his feelings. He's also going to be pushing the limits of what he can, and cannot do. You'll find him trying things you're afraid to let him do. Unless it's something almost suicidal, don't get in his way. He needs to have some control over his life. Especially now."  
  
Chuck and Bernie exchanged glances, both trying very hard to keep a straight face.  
  
"C-control," Chuck repeated in a strangled voice. "Gary's whole life has been out of control for the last four years!"  
  
"Well, you'd better find some way to help him get a grip on things," Zimmerman told them grimly. "His life could depend on it."  
  
**************  
  
It was several days before Gary would speak in more than grunts and monosyllables to either of his parents. Chuck and Jade he wouldn't even look at. He ducked under the covers every time they came to visit, at first. Then he graduated to just sitting with his arms crossed and staring miserably out the window. Finally, he relented and forgave everyone. The forbidden subject, however, was never brought up again.  
  
Eventually, the bandages on his hands were replaced by soft cotton gloves and he was able to start rehab.   
  
Amanda came in one day to find Gary with a bright yellow tennis ball in each hand. She watched him squeeze and release them over and over again for several minutes.  
  
"Whacha doin'?"  
  
"Building up my arm muscles," Gary told her with a tiny smile. "It's part of what I have to do before they can teach me how to handle a . . . a wheelchair. They start me on this, then I move up to heavier stuff. I've been in this bed so long, I'm getting flabby."  
  
"That's not what I heard the nurses say," Amanda told him in a sing-song voice. She wore an evil little grin.  
  
Gary stopped what he was doing and gave her a suspicious look. "What did you hear?" he asked, not really sure he wanted to know. "You haven't been eavesdropping again, have you?"  
  
"Just a little," she confessed with a giggle. "The nurses all think you're cute. What's a 'stud'?"  
  
Gary's face went bright red as he tried to formulate an answer that would not come back to bite him later. "Um, shouldn't you be in school?" he asked in a strangled voice, stalling for time.  
  
"Nope," she replied as she scooted onto the bed. "Summer vacation isn't over for another eight weeks. You didn't answer my question. Why did the nurses say you were a stud?"  
  
"Th-that's one of those things you'd better ask your mother," he finally told her. God! How could he ever face any of the nurses with a straight face after that?  
  
"Wise answer," observed a voice from the door. Dr. Zimmerman came in, followed by Diane, the therapist overseeing his rehab. "I've just been looking at your latest x-rays," the doctor told him. "Your leg is healing at a remarkable rate. Diane and I think we can start the more aggressive part of your rehab next week."  
  
"Does that mean he gets a wheelchair of his own?" the little girl asked guilelessly.  
  
Zimmerman was watching Gary, so he was unable to miss the effect her innocent question had on his patient. "Yes," he replied levelly. "That's exactly what it means, Amanda. Gary, you need to look on this as a step up, so to speak. At least, you'll finally be out of this bed."  
  
"Sure," Gary agreed, his voice as flat and wooden as his expression. "I'm thrilled." He seemed suddenly fascinated by the bright yellow ball in his right hand. "Um, how . . . how long before we can work on getting me out of it, Doc?"  
  
"I still don't have an answer for you, Gary," the doctor told him honestly. "If your back were healing as fast as your leg, I'd say a few months. But, it's not. And, I have no explanation for either. You are a living, breathing enigma, Gary."  
  
Gary had his own theories about that, and they all centered around a newspaper and a certain orange tabby. Evidently, he had yet to find his 'task.'   
  
"We need to go over what you can expect to be doing in rehab, Gary," Diane told him. "You've already been started on the upper body exercises, and doing quite well, so far. We start you on free weights tomorrow. If you can maintain your present rate of progress, you'll be ready for the parallel bars by the time that splint comes off next week."  
  
Gary's head snapped up to meet her gaze. "Next week? Hang on, I thought bones took at least six weeks to get strong enough to bear weight. It's only been . . . three since the accident!"  
  
"As I said," the doctor reminded him, "your leg is almost completely healed. Both the bone and the exit wound. Also, your leg won't be required to bear weight until feeling returns. Now, let Diane finish."  
  
"Thank you," the therapist smiled. "Once I'm satisfied with your performance on the parallel bars, we'll teach you how to get in and out of your chair under various conditions and circumstances. Also how to maneuver in and out of various types of vehicles, whether equipped for the handicapped or not. Getting in and out of a shower or tub. Various tools to make life a little easier. Even various recreational activities you can participate in to keep fit. We can even teach you to drive with special manual controls."  
  
"Cool!" Amanda exclaimed. "Can I watch?"  
  
"No, Sweetie," Gary replied automatically. His mind was careening like a 'Tilt-a-Whirl.' "Um, would you mind if I talk with the doc and Diane alone, Hon? I've got some . . . some kinda embarrassing questions to ask."  
  
"Those are the best kind!" the little girl pouted as she slid off the bed, heading for the door. "I have to go anyway. Mom is taking me to see Gram and Gramps for the weekend. Can I come back next week?"  
  
"Sure, Amanda. But, don't I get a kiss before you go?" Gary asked, giving her a sad smile. "You know I can't sleep without my goodnight kiss."  
  
The little girl practically flew across the room and climbed onto Gary's bed. She planted several wet kisses on each cheek before giving him an enthusiastic hug. "There! That's until I get back. I want you to get lots of rest so you can get better."  
  
"Thanks, Amanda," Gary smiled. "I feel better already." He gave her a quick peck on the forehead and let her go. As soon as she was out the door, he turned to his other two visitors, his face grim.  
  
"You talk as if I'm never gonna walk again," he said. "Like I should be happy just to get out of this damned bed. That's not good enough. I want to walk again. I want to be ready to walk again! What kind of therapy will . . .can I receive towards that goal?"  
  
"Until you actually have feeling and movement in both legs there's not much we can do," Diane replied truthfully. "There are exercises we can perform to keep the muscles from atrophy, but little that you can do on your own. Sorry."  
  
"Then teach me what you can."  
  
*****************  
  
Gary was half asleep when Chuck and Jade came by that afternoon. They were still a little unsure of their welcome. On their last visit Gary had spoken very little, an then only in clipped, sullen tones. So they were pleasantly surprised when he greeted them with a drowsy little grin.  
  
"Still expecting, I see."  
  
"They're going to induce labor tomorrow," Jade sighed wearily. "And it's a good thing we'll have one of each, because I will never go through this again!" She eased down into the chair with a groan.  
  
"You okay, Gar?" Chuck asked. "You seem a little . . . out of it."  
  
"Hmm? Yeah, 'm okay," Gary mumbled. "Got a little sick a while ago. They, um, they gave me somethin' an' it's . . . got a kick to it. Gonna be a dad tomorrow, huh? Wish I could be there." He closed his eyes for a moment.  
  
"So do we, Hon," Jade whispered. She loved Chuck with all her heart, but she had harbored a soft spot for Gary since the first day they had met. He had been posing as Brigatti's husband in a sting that had been set up to catch a jewel thief, her! She had been on the arm of the man she was setting up to be her fall guy and Gary Hobson had been the only one to see through her 'dumb blonde' act. Poor guy! It had been so easy to embarrass him, keeping him off base. Where did he learn to be such a boy scout?  
  
"We'll bring pictures by later," Chuck promised. "Give you a good look at your godchildren."  
  
"Preciate that," Gary murmured around a cavernous yawn. "Sorry, guys. Not much company right now. Rainch'ck?"  
  
"Sure, Gar," Chuck sighed. "We'll check in on ya later. Get some sleep. C'mon, Sweetheart.," he added, holding a hand out to his wife.  
  
"No," Gary protested, rousing sluggishly. "She's tired. You can jus . . . jus' rest a li'l while." His voice faded as the medication took effect. Less than a minute later, Gary was making soft little snoring noises.   
  
Chuck bent down to give his wife a tender kiss on the cheek. "You stay here, love," he said. "I need to go talk to the nurse." Jade just nodded wearily. The twins were taking a lot out of her.  
  
A moment later, Chuck was at the nurses station, talking with Nurse Corso. He wanted to know what had happened to make Gary so sick.  
  
"I'm afraid it's my fault," she confessed. "I was giving him his sponge bath, and he got his first good look at his leg. He's lucky. It looks a lot better today than it has been. I think . . . I think his mind filled in too many blanks, if you know what I mean. Dr. Zimmerman has arranged a consult with the cosmetic surgeon to see what can be done to reduce the scarring."  
  
"That bad?"  
  
"Mr. Fishman, your friend had six inches of his femur sticking out through a very ragged hole," she told him grimly. "What do you think?"  
  
"I think I'm gonna need some of whatever you gave him," Chuck replied in a very small voice.  
  
**************  
  
Lois and Bernie sat anxiously by as the doctor examined the latest set of x-rays. "Normally," he was saying, "the orthopedic surgeon would have used a metal plate to stabilize the fracture. Due to Gary's special circumstances, however, I was able to persuade him to go with a biodegradable alternative. Something that would allow him to withstand an MRI. Looks like it worked beautifully. We'll be taking the splint off in the morning, and he should be able to get out of bed almost immediately."  
  
"Out of bed," Bernie repeated. "But, not on his feet."  
  
With a resigned sigh, the doctor turned to face his patient's family. "No," he told them honestly. "Your son has presented me with a number of medical puzzles, Mr. Hobson. Not the least of which is why he is still alive in the first place. He should have bled to death from a torn femoral artery long before any of you found him. Then to come back after more than ten minutes without vital signs . . . And with full brain function . . . Your son would be considered by some to be a living, breathing miracle. As to why his leg is healing so fast, and his spinal cord so slowly . . . I have no answer for that." He crossed the room and sat behind his desk, facing them. "Your son told me something soon after he woke from his coma. He said that, sometimes, things had to happen to him so that he would be where he needed to be. Now, I know that he has unusual . . . insight into . . . things that I won't even pretend to understand, and he seems sure that he will, indeed, walk again. We'll do everything we can to help him achieve that goal. But, we also have to face the possibility that he has simply . . . run out of miracles."  
  
"Not Gary," Lois told him flatly. "If he says he'll walk, then he will walk. He may have to go through Hell in a handcart first, but he will walk. I won't pretend to understand any of this. Even Gary doesn't understand. He stopped trying a long time ago. About the second time he found himself being hunted like an animal throughout the tri-state area. All he can do is the best he can to ride it out and accomplish whatever it is he's being called upon to do."  
  
"Then we'll do what we can to make the ride as smooth as possible," Zimmerman promised.  
  
***************  
  
With obvious effort Gary pulled himself onto the parallel bars. Shifting his weight from side to side, he managed to slide his hands, and his body, a few inches forward before his strength gave out and he hit the floor. Frustrated, he slammed his fist against the mat with a muffled curse.  
  
"It's okay, Gary," Diane said by way of encouragement. "This is the first time you've been on the bars in years, I'll bet."  
  
"You'd win that bet," Gary grumbled as he pushed himself erect. "I don't remember it being this hard, though."  
  
"You've also been stuck flat on your back for the past month," she reminded him. "Cut yourself a little slack. Now, let's get you back in the chair and try this again."  
  
"And how do I get back in that thing from here?" he sighed.  
  
"Slide your body around until you have your back against the seat of the chair," she directed him. She waited until he had done as she instructed. "All the way back, until you're as upright as possible. That's good. Now, we'll help you this time, but, eventually you'll be doing this on your own. We're going to lift on your belt while you push up with your arms. That's good! Now slide your hips back. Excellent! As you get more strength in your arms, shoulders, and upper back, you'll find this gets much easier. Now, let's try this again."  
  
****************  
  
Gary 'walked' the length of the bars and back in less time than it had taken him to move a few feet just two weeks before. He repeated the journey one more time before settling back in the chair with a sigh. The rings were next, he recalled. Thirty reps, then a session on the free weights. It was a routine that was becoming old in a hurry. Whatever it was he had to do, whatever 'task' he had to complete, it wasn't here. To find it, he had to get out of this place. To do that he had to prove he could handle himself, and his situation.  
  
He was just finishing up when Diane re-appeared pushing a different wheelchair than the one he had been using. It was a little more low slung than the regular hospital variety, with lower, detachable arm rests and wheels that flared outward at the bottom. Just looking at it gave Gary a chill. This chair was built for the streets. It was meant for one person to use on an hourly . . . daily basis. It was meant for him.  
  
Gary sat up, toweling the sweat off his face and shoulders as he eyed the contraption. He had mixed feelings at the sight of it. On the one hand, it represented a step up, freedom of a sort. On the other . . . Just looking at it tied Gary's stomach in a knot. 'How long will I be stuck in the damned thing?' he wondered. If he had been able, he would have run from the room screaming. But then, if he were able to run, he wouldn't need the blasted thing.  
  
"That's it, huh? My new . . . my new wheels?" It was all he could do not to choke on the question. "Looks . . looks okay."  
  
Watching his face, Diane could almost read his mind. Her heart went out to this man who tried so hard to keep his hopes up, only to be reminded at every turn just what he faced. She could see the pain in his eyes that he refused to let show on his face as he stared at the chair in morbid fascination.   
  
"It's the deluxe sports model," she quipped in an effort to lighten his mood. She was rewarded with the barest flicker of a smile. "The wider wheel base gives it more stability for tighter turns at high speed. The detachable arms and lower height make it easier to get into from various positions."  
  
"Such as the floor," Gary returned. "I've seen guys play basketball in these. Pretty impressive." He tore his eyes away with a shuddering sigh. "Well, let's try this baby on for size." He draped the towel around his neck as Diane locked the wheels and moved the pedals out of the way. Gary gripped the arms and pulled himself up, just as on the parallel bars. Then, he switched hands as he turned, lowering himself into his new ride. He took a moment to get himself adjusted, then lifted his legs one at a time onto the pedals. Once he was situated, he unlocked the wheels and backed it away from the bench. He executed a few tight turns, then stopped in the middle of the room. He sat there, absolutely still, staring at nothing, his jaw clenching and unclenching as various emotions played across his features. Finally he turned to face her once more.  
  
Diane watched as Gary tried to put on a brave face, giving her a quick, encouraging smile, mouth trembling at the corners. Then, his handsome, boyish features twisted with the pain and anger he could no longer hide, a single tear sliding down his cheek, his arms clutching his abdomen as if to forcibly hold in the heart-breaking sobs that refused to stay silent anymore. He was doubling over as if in physical, rather than spiritual pain. Impulsively, she wrapped her arms around his shuddering frame, pushing his head down onto her shoulder as he finally let flow tears of grief, anger, bitterness, and despair. He returned the embrace, clinging to her like a drowning man to a life preserver.  
  
"It's okay," she told him gently. "It hits everyone like this, sooner or later. Usually sooner. You've handled this a lot better than most. Just go ahead and let it out, Gary. It's okay."  
  
They sat like that for several minutes, until Gary's emotional turmoil had run it's course. Then, with a visible effort, and a loud, stuttering sigh, he pushed back from her comforting embrace. "No," he sniffed, speaking in a low, raspy monotone. "It's not okay. Not yet. But, it will be." He used the sweat soaked towel to dry his face before favoring Diane with one of his boyish grins, although he found it difficult to look her in the eye. "Now, um, show me . . . show me how to drive this and dribble at the same time. I don't want to get called for traveling the first time I play."  
  
*****************  
  
Gary was alone in the therapy room when Crumb finally found him. The younger man was practicing a lay-up one of the other patients, a veteran wheelchair jockey, had shown him. Although only a couple of weeks had passed since he had received the chair, Crumb was impressed with how well Hobson was handling it. He executed turns so tight, he courted whiplash, dribbled the ball the length of the room and back. Even popped a few wheelies when the ball threatened to get away from him. Then he spied Crumb standing by the double doors. Gary bounced the ball into a box near the back wall, and propelled his chair to meet his visitor.  
  
"Hey, Zeke!" he greeted him enthusiastically. "Where ya been? It's been . . . what . . . three weeks since your last visit?"  
  
"Been up to my eyeballs in divorce cases," the ex-cop grumbled. "You wouldn't believe some of the stuff people fight over. How ya been, Hobson?"  
  
"Okay, I guess," Gary shrugged. "They say I might be able to go home next week. Maybe. Possibly." His earlier good mood slipped as he remembered his last conversation with the doctor. "So! You seen the twins, yet? They brought 'em to see me yesterday. 'Course, they couldn't bring 'em past the first floor lobby, but I got to . . . to hold 'em and all. That . . . that little Gary, isn't he . . . isn't he the spitting image of . . ." Gary's voice trailed off as he realized he was babbling. "So, um, h-how've you been?"  
  
"Hobson," Crumb sighed, "aside from Fishman and family, how many visitors have you had since I was here last?"  
  
Gary looked away, rubbing his hands on his sweat pants nervously. "Amanda comes almost every day," he replied defensively. "Chuck and Jade are still adjusting to parenthood. They're really great kids, Zeke. You should see 'em. Um, Mom and Dad have been . . . busy. But, they check up on me when they can. Toni had a family emergency that took her to Sicily or . . . or someplace like that. And Paul seems . . . uncomfortable around me for some . . . some reason. He doesn't come unless he's with someone. Winslow's been in a coupla times, but he seems . . . nervous around me, too. Keeps asking me . . . asking what it w-was like . . . to die. He's, ahm, he's a little strange."  
  
"I think you mean rude and insensitive," Crumb grumbled menacingly. He made himself a promise to have a stern talk with the young detective. "So you're fine, the twins are swell, Amanda's a peach, and your folks are too busy to bother with ya. So what are ya leaving out?"  
  
Gary scowled at the brusque comment about his parents, until he realized that Crumb was trying to goad him. "They keep talking like it's not a lost cause," he sighed, still not meeting his friend's steady gaze. "But . . . there hasn't been any improvement since I . . . since I woke up. And now . . . and now I'm supposed to get 'adjusted' to this thing," he added, indicating the chair. "I don't know what to hope for anymore. I mean, what's it gonna be like? Not just rollin' up and down the streets, but just getting around in my own home! It's gonna take months of remodeling before I can get to take a bath by myself! Or even use the . . . the blasted toilet! When I broke my leg that time, I could at least hop on the good one. What do I do now? Crawl?"  
  
"Why didn't you mention all this to your folks months ago?" Crumb asked. "You could've had it all finished by now."  
  
Rubbing his hands up and down his legs, Gary confessed with a shuddering sigh. "I guess I kept hoping for a miracle," he replied honestly. "That something would happen, and I'd walk out of here like it was all a bad dream."  
  
"Speakin' of dreams," Crumb remarked a little too casually. "That night, when we brought you back the first time, you mentioned something about . . . stopping Marley. What did you mean? And who's Snow?"  
  
Startled, Gary had to think for a moment before he could answer. "I . . . it was so weird," he finally replied. "Lucius Snow was a guy who worked for the 'Sun-Times' years ago. He died about the time I first moved into the 'Blackstone', after Marcia kicked me out. He was also the same guy who saved me from getting run over when I was ten." At Crumb's startled look, Gary quickly explained about the events of twenty-four years before coming back to him just before Judge Romick was murdered. Although, he left out any mention of the paper. "Wh-while I was unconscious . . . I guess it was all a dream. But, and this is where it gets weird, I had to go back in time to stop Marley from framing Snow for the Kennedy assassination, so that Snow could be there to save me from that truck. What was even weirder, I was losing the . . . the feeling in m-my legs . . . even in the dr-dream." Gary suddenly realized that he was still rubbing his legs as he spoke. He stopped, laying his hands in his lap, fingers intertwined as if to forcibly stop his nervous fidgeting. "When . . . when I . . . woke up, Mom was crying, I could f-feel her tears on my face. Dad was praying, and you . . . you were telling me to . . . to fight. To breathe. And M-Marissa, I could hear her praying and . . . and pleading with me to just . . . come back."  
  
Crumb recalled the scene as if it had happened yesterday. He had, indeed, been telling the kid to 'fight', but only in the silence of his own mind. More as a silent prayer, than actual words. And the others had been equally silent, putting all of their energy into just keeping the young man alive. He had no doubts, however, that Hobson had just accurately described exactly what had been going through their minds.   
  
"You've had nightmares about him before, haven't you?" It wasn't really a question.  
  
Gary ducked his head, nodding as he chewed his lower lip. "Every night, at first," he quietly confessed. "Then, after a month or so, not as often. They finally quit entirely about a year ago. Then . . . they started up all over again."  
  
"Want to talk about it?" Crumb asked. The answer he got was pretty much what he was expecting.  
  
"I wish I could," the younger man sighed. "It was just a . . . a chance comment by some one I don't even know. Marissa thinks I should talk to someone about it, but . . .I can't. I don't know if I'll ever be able to. Not without the . . . the nightmares starting up again." He spun the chair around so that he was no longer directly facing Crumb. "I'll probably have one tonight. Every time someone uses the words 'visions' and 'voices' in the same sentence, I get this . . . chill . . . crawling up my spine. He was trying to . . .to make me doubt myself. And he succeeded. Almost had me convinced I was . . . delusional. There's another word that . . . that gets to me," he added with a wry chuckle. "Paul used it a lot when we first met. And again during that . . . the Savalas/Scanlon deal. I guess it makes people sleep better at night to be able to . . . to make me into some kinda nut case. Well, they may not have to worry about me anymore. There's not a lot of trouble I can get into from here." He slapped the arm of the wheelchair for emphasis.  
  
Crumb could see his young friend was fighting hard to hold back the bitterness that threatened to overwhelm him. They had been warned that his emotions would be riding very close to the surface. That he would have a hard time controlling them. Maybe this had been a bad idea, after all.  
  
"You know that I don't know how you do . . . whatever it is you do. And I don't want to," Crumb hastened to say. "But, I got this feeling that just being in that contraption isn't gonna stop you for long. As for that . . . that other thing, I still think you got a raw deal there. You should've gotten a medal instead. I'll never understand why you let them shut you up so easy. 'Specially as you had such a bad time of it after. They didn't even offer counseling?"  
  
"I was as eager to bury it as they were," Gary admitted. "Probably more so. The quicker I could put it out of my mind, the better. Only, it refuses to stay buried. There's always . . . someone, or something to remind me. Always someone who wants to know what I've said, and to whom. I never even discuss it with Chuck and Marissa, and they were there. For most of it, anyway. This . . . this is the most I've spoken of it since it happened. And, if I never talk of it again, it'll be too soon."  
  
The big ex-cop placed a comforting hand on the kid's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "It'll get better, kid," he promised. "So long as you keep pluggin' away, things'll get easier to handle. Now, why don't you go and get cleaned up. Your folks said they'd be here in time for lunch. And the Doc has signed a pass for you to get outta this place for a few hours. " Surprisingly, Crumb found that the way the poor kid's face lit up at that revelation was almost enough to make him want to cry himself. Hobson had been cooped up in here way too long.  
  
**********************  
  
Crumb pleaded a prior commitment, mostly, Gary was sure, to give him time alone with his family. Uninterrupted privacy was something they had sorely lacked at the hospital. There was always someone coming in to check on him for one reason or another. To Gary, it was a gift beyond price just to get off the hospital grounds and out into the summer sun.   
  
His parents took him first to his favorite restaurant, where they spent a good hour just exchanging small talk. Next, they took him to Lakeshore Park, where Gary was able to stop a mugging by simply running into the would-be assailants with his wheelchair. He acted totally innocent, of course, apologizing as he watched the intended victim out of the corner of his eye. As soon as she was safely out of sight, he apologized once more, then made his exit.   
  
His parents were waiting with expectant looks on their faces.  
  
"It felt good," he admitted quietly, barely suppressing a grin. "Thanks."  
  
"You just needed to see if you could get back into harness," Bernie told his son. "You did great. The saps never knew what hit 'em."  
  
"Better than that," Lois snorted. "They never even knew they'd been hit! It was inspired, son, the way you used your weakness against them! And you thought you were helpless!"  
  
"I guess I just had to find out for myself," Gary sighed. "There's still a lot I probably can't do, but I won't know 'til I try. Maybe . . . maybe I could try a few more easy ones each day?" he asked hopefully.   
  
"It's your paper, Gar," his father reminded him. "And your responsibility. Ultimately, all decisions are yours. Your Mom and I have had 'fun' pinch-hitting, but it'll be a relief to hand it back over."  
  
"We just don't feel as if we're handling it as well as you did, dear," Lois admitted. "You always seemed to get so . . . so personally involved with some of them. In ways that we can't. There's just something about you, Gary. Even we can't pin down exactly what it is. I just don't believe that wheelchair is going to be as big an obstacle as you think. I mean, yes, there are some things that you just can't do anymore. But, there's so much more that you still can."  
  
Gary chewed over their comments as he considered his options. He was not helpless. Not in every situation, anyway. All he had to do was learn to work around his limitations. He looked at his watch, realizing it was time to go back.  
  
"Do you think you can spring me again tomorrow?" he asked hopefully. "In time to try one or two more?"  
  
"Count on it," Bernie replied with a huge grin. "You'll be terrorizing the bad guys again before you know it, Kiddo!"  
  
"Just so long as I can help people," Gary told him earnestly. "If I can't do that, then I'm no good to myself, or anyone else."  
  
*******************  
  
Lois and Bernie were only able to get him out a few more times over the next few weeks, each time giving Gary a chance to change a few more headlines. As the summer drew to a close, however, the younger Hobson began to fear he would never be allowed out on a permanent basis. It had been the last week in May when he had taken that disastrous tumble. It was mid September when Dr. Zimmerman announced that he would soon be released.  
  
"You've made excellent progress," he reported cheerfully. "Diane tells me you've given her a hundred and twenty percent in therapy. She wants to hold you up as a 'shining example' of what can be accomplished in a wheelchair."  
  
"I'd rather be a shining example of how to get out of a wheelchair," Gary sighed. "So, if all my tests are coming back so great, and I'm the 'wunderkind' of physical therapy, why hasn't the feeling come back? Why am I still in this chair?"  
  
Zimmerman lay down the latest set of MRI films with a sigh, before taking a seat facing his patient.  
  
"I'm afraid I don't have any answers for you there, Gary," he replied truthfully. He had learned to never try to sugar-coat information with this patient. "The swelling has been down for quite some time, now. If you were going to get full use of your legs back, it should have occurred over the last few weeks. As of right now, there is nothing structurally wrong with your spine. No narrowing of the disc spaces, no swelling, no displacement, not so much as a minute tear in the nerve bundle or the fascia. According to all the tests we, or anyone else can run, you should be able to get out of that chair and start learning how to walk again. You . . . should . . . feel . . . your . . . legs!" Frustrated, he pulled out Gary's chart again and began to flip through it. "Bottom line, without some kind of progress in that regard, we have no more reason to keep you here. I don't look for this to happen any time soon, but there is still the possibility that you could walk again. I just can't tell you when."  
  
"Wonderful," his patient grumbled. "I'm in great shape, except that I can't walk. Ah, don't worry, Doc," he added at the physician's concerned look. "I'm not gonna do anything stupid, and I do understand everything that you're saying. It's just . . . I guess I'm getting kinda . . ."  
  
"Stir crazy?"  
  
"Pretty much," Gary admitted with a tiny grin as he rocked back and forth on his elbows. "Ya'll have been great and everything . . ."  
  
" 'Ya'll?'" The doctor returned his grin. "We've got to get you out of here! You're spending way to much time in x-ray! Polly's starting to rub off on you."  
  
***************** 


	2. An Uncertain Future

"I thought I was supposed to be going home, today," Gary was saying as he was pushed down the hallway, his eyes closed. "Isn't the exit the other way?"  
  
"Your folks won't be here for another few minutes," Polly reminded him. "And you promised Billy a rematch. You really shouldn't 've beat the poor boy so bad your first time in the game."  
  
"He zigged when he shoulda zagged," Gary quipped. "So why do I have to keep my eyes shut? Couldn't I just spot 'im a coupla points?"  
  
"Open those 'puppy dog' eyes before I say to," the stocky tech promised, "and Billy won't be the only one you butt heads with. Now, just behave yourself. We're here."  
  
Gary obediently kept his eyes closed as Polly pushed him into the cavernous room. "So, why are you here so early, Polly?" he finally asked. "I thought you only worked second shift?"  
  
"And miss saying 'so long' to my favorite patient?" she snorted. "Bite your tongue!" The motherly tech wheeled him into the middle of the room and stopped. "You can open your eyes now, sweetie."  
  
Amused at the familiar tone Polly took with all her patients, Gary obeyed. He was greeted with a thunderous shout of "SURPRISE!" Slightly stunned, he looked around the brightly decorated gym at the familiar faces of nurses, therapists, techs and fellow patients. Even Dr. Carter and half the ER staff were there! Speechless, he watched as the youthful resident approached, a small package in his hand.   
  
"This is your last day with us," Carter reminded him, "and we couldn't let it pass like just any other day. You came in so . . . so close to death, we couldn't pull you back. You did that on your own. That first night, you threw the rulebook out the window and beat the crap out of the odds. You've been a constant reminder that miracles do happen. You've also worked just as hard as the rest of us to make the best of a . . . a rotten situation. Most patients who have had an . . . experience like yours refer to themselves as 'living on borrowed time.' So we've gotten you a little something to keep track of that time, in the hopes that you'll be able to postpone repayment for a good, long while."  
  
He handed a speechless Gary the package, and a hush settled as everyone waited to see his reaction. Gary's hands shook slightly as he carefully removed the wrapping on the long, thin object. Inside the wrapping was a jewelers box. Gary opened it to see a very expensive looking watch with a black leather band.   
  
"Look on the back," someone said. Gary looked up at the expectant faces for just a second before complying. On the back was an inscription.  
  
'Sept. 17, 1965  
May 20, 2000  
4:56 AM'  
  
"That's both your birth dates, Gary," Carter told him softly. "The day you were born, and the day and time of your rebirth. It's our hope that, whenever the going gets too rough, you'll look at that and remember that someone is looking after you in a very big way."  
  
Gary didn't know what to say. He stared at the inscription a moment longer before closing his hand around the watch, his chest tightening with emotion.  
  
"It's . . . it's great," he told them in a choked whisper. "It's really . . . Th-thank you. All of you. You, um, you've been really good to me. Even when I've been a royal pain. And don't say I haven't 'cause we all know better." He was rewarded with some scattered laughter. "You've helped me through some . . . difficult times these last few months. No one could ask for better treatment than I've received, and if they do, they don't deserve it." More laughter and a few cries of 'Here here!'. Gary fastened the watch around his wrist, realizing as he did that he had absolutely no idea what had happened to his old one. "I'll treasure this as a reminder of some wonderful people that I hope to see again. Under better circumstances, that is." He looked over at a large buffet set up on the other side of the room. "You, um, you wouldn't have anything to drink over there, would you? For some reason, I'm feeling a little . . . dry"  
  
The crowd broke up with a few chuckles as everyone headed for the food. Looking around, Gary wondered if Dr. Zimmerman was going to make an appearance later. Then someone put a large cup of fruit punch into Gary's hand, which he nearly spilt as the double doors slammed open, startling him.   
  
"Make way, make way for the Fishman express!"   
  
Gary turned his chair so that he could have a better look at the disturbance. He was treated to the most ridiculous sight he had seen in a long time. Chuck had burst through the doors seated in a regular wheel chair, two plungers in his lap, and a pink plastic basin on his head! He rolled up to where Gary was seated and tossed his bemused friend one of the plungers, almost causing Gary to spill his drink. Quickly draining the cup, Gary handed it back to Polly, who was trying hard to keep a straight face.  
  
"Chuck, are you crazy?" he asked. "Never mind. I already know the answer to that one. What are you doing?"  
  
"I am here to defend the honor of Camelot and join the quest for the Holy Grail!" his friend intoned with a flourish of his plunger.  
  
"Chuck, you're Jewish," Gary reminded him.  
  
"So why should the Gentiles have all the fun?" Chuck shrugged. He suddenly charged at Gary, the business end of the plunger aimed forward. "Have at thee, knave! Lancelot was meshuga!"  
  
With a laugh, Gary deflected Chuck's charge with a flourish that brought a cheer from the on-lookers. Using one hand to swivel and turn his chair, Gary deftly parried his friend's thrusts, jabs and swings with the other. For a good ten minutes they dueled around the room to the sounds of laughter, cheers and catcalls. Finally, Chuck conceded defeat. Mainly because the basin kept slipping forward over his face.   
  
"Oy!" he gasped, pushing the offending object back and wiping the sweat off his forehead. "The forces of light prevail! Or is it 'The Force Is With You?' I forget. Anyway, Gar, you're dad is waiting outside with the van. You want I should tell him to wait? Or can we join the party?"  
  
"There's plenty," Carter replied to Gary's questioning look. "And we only have a little time before we have to get back to work."  
  
At Gary's nod, Chuck leaped out of the wheelchair with a clumsy grace that the young barkeep envied. He disappeared through the door, only to return a few minutes later with Bernie in tow. The surprise party only lasted another twenty minutes before people started drifting back to their jobs. Diane, Polly and Carter were the last to leave. They paused to wish Gary good luck, or words to that effect, with a few sidelong glances at Chuck and Bernie, as if to say "With those two, you're gonna need it."  
  
Finally, it was just the three of them. Gary could hardly believe he was really going home. He took his time rolling down the hall towards the exit, waving at familiar faces, taking the time for a few more good-byes.   
  
"Chuck said you brought the van," he mumbled, finally speaking directly to his dad. "Kinda wish you hadn't." He was remembering how much harder it was to get into the van that one time they had taken him out in it. It had been so much easier getting in and out of the taxis they had used later.  
  
"Why not?" Bernie asked, genuinely puzzled. "It has more head room than a taxi. Besides, I had to pick it up from the garage anyway," he added with a shrug.  
  
"The garage?" He stopped, turning to face the other two. "What was wrong with it? You had a wreck, didn't you? Or Mom? Is that why Mom hasn't been here? Is she okay?"   
  
"Just settle down, kiddo," Bernie laughed. "It just needed a little work is all. Some new carpet, a little body work, just little stuff." As they approached the doors, he fished out a set of keys and tossed them to his son. "I'm tired. How about you driving?"  
  
Gary caught the keys with a sour look on his face. He shot a look at Chuck, who was studiously ignoring him. Which made Gary vary suspicious.  
  
"What are you two up to?" he asked. "You never pass up a chance to drive, Dad. And you, you're way too quiet, Chuck." He tossed the keys back to his dad. "Besides, I can't drive 'til we find a place that'll refit it with hand controls."  
  
"And a lift-gate," Chuck reminded him. "You'd been wanting a lift-gate even before the accident."  
  
As the doors slid open, Bernie tossed the keys back to his son. "Happy birthday, Gar."  
  
Puzzled, Gary wheeled himself around to the back of the van. That was when he noticed that this was not the same van. The roof was extended for more headroom. The side door was open to reveal a factory-made lift that was lowered and ready for his use. Gary looked at his dad who gave him an encouraging nod, then he rolled his chair onto the platform. He grasped the control lever and smiled as it raised him, chair and all, to the level of the floorboard. Rolling forward, he found the control that brought the platform to a vertical position and slid the door closed. It was roomy inside. A lot more headroom than the old van. The driver's seat was on a track that let it be slid back and out of the way with little effort, as was the case now. Gary carefully guided his chair forward, until a rapid series of clicks told him that the chair was locked in place behind the wheel. He looked everything over, familiarizing himself with the controls. Feeling the van rock, he glanced over to see his dad and Chuck settling into the passenger seats.  
  
"Th-this is great, Dad," he stammered. "I-I don't . . . "  
  
"Then don't," Bernie grinned. "Just drive. I wasn't kidding about being tired. I sat with the twins last night so Chuckles and Jade could have a little quiet time. You do remember where you live, don't you?"  
  
"Of course, I do!" Gary sat there, staring out the windshield, still having made no move to insert the key into the ignition.  
  
"So? Why aren't we moving?" Chuck asked from the back seat. "You waiting for a light to change or something?"  
  
"Hunh! Oh!" Gary's mind returned to the present with a barely suppressed shudder. "Just . . . just trying to convince myself, I guess."  
  
"Convince yourself?" Bernie repeated as Gary finally turned the key. "Of what?"  
  
"That it's real," he murmured softly. "That I'm finally going home."  
  
***********************  
  
Driving his new van towards home, Gary was almost overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and even the smells of the City of Chicago. It was like ambrosia to him. He only now realized just how much he'd missed it all. "Going home…" he mused. It all felt so unreal to him. It was his 35th birthday and he was finally going home! Suddenly an anxious, unnerving thought intruded upon his ruminations. "Oh, my Lord!" he thought to himself. "What's it going to be like… to be at home…now, in this…condition. Will I be able to cope…to function, at all?" Apprehension was beginning to well up inside him, but then… There it was before him, McGinty's! His bar, his home! What a welcome sight.   
  
As Gary drew the van up in front of the building, he noticed two orange Parking Authority cones and a sign that read: "Reserved Handicapped Space, Parking by permit #91765, only." Gary chuckled inwardly, they had used the date of his birth as the permit number. He asked his two, now very quiet, passengers if they had anything to do with the special permit parking. Bernie directed his attention to the Handicapped Permit sign dangling from the rear-view mirror. It bore the matching numbers 91765. "Thanks, Dad," he said with a smile, and then proceeded to deftly park the van with a practiced hand.   
  
Gary turned the motor off, but made no move to exit the vehicle. He stared out the windows at McGinty's as if he was carefully contemplating his next move. In all actuality, Gary was deep in thought wondering just what was "home" going to really be like for him now. The apprehension he felt, at this point, was so thick it could be cut with a knife. Life at home wouldn't be the same, in any way, as it had been before the accident, that much he knew for certain. Once he left the security of that van and wheeled himself inside the building, his life would be forever changed. The final nail even, as it were. There would be no turning back, either way. He was committed by fate to whatever it was that awaited him there. Marissa always said that 'everything happens for a reason' and he had resigned himself to waiting for that reason to make itself apparent.  
  
"Hey, Gar! Come on, let's go!" Chuck's insistent voice, yelled from behind, woke Gary from his musings.  
  
"Huh? Oh, yeah…right…um, OK, Chuck," Gary replied quickly.  
  
Then, working the van's controls, at his father's direction, Gary rolled his chair onto the lift, which in turn lowered him to the sidewalk, where his Dad and Chuck waited. A quick light press on the key fob and the lift disappeared back into the van and the automatic sliding door closed and locked. Gary smiled to himself at how easy that was. At least he wouldn't have to worry about getting out and about in the city, and parking shouldn't be a problem either.  
  
Propelling his chair to the front door, Gary stopped before going in. He mentally braced himself as he stared at the door. He knew that from now on he would be seeing "home" from a vastly different perspective. From now on, his point of view of the world around him would be converted to that of a paraplegic in a wheelchair. Would he even be able to do something as simple as tend bar, anymore? The front and back bars were configured for a standing person. Definitely not for someone in a sitting position, and especially not for someone sitting as low as wheelchair height …and…the loft! Oh, God! What would he have to do to even get up there? Gary felt a sinking feeling in his chest, like his heart falling into his stomach. He wasn't even in the building yet, and he felt totally overwhelmed, trapped, and wishing he could flee. If only he could just get away…but, the situation in which he now was hopelessly enmeshed would not go away. It would follow him wherever he went. There was no going back now. From this point on, only 'forward' was available to him and 'forward' into his uncertain future he would go.  
  
Breaking out of his reverie, Gary finally looked over at his father with eyes that said, 'Okay, let's get this over with.' He was about to reach for the door handle, when his dad, who had been standing next to McGinty's front door, reached over and pressed a small square button that was next to a 'Handicapped' sign, both of which Gary had not noticed before. The door swung open as if to say 'Welcome home! Come on in!' Slightly bewildered, Gary looked first at his dad, then at Chuck. With a glimmer of a smile, Chuck replied, "Well, go on . . .!" Pleased, Gary smiled back at him. Previously, he had worried about how he was going to maneuver his chair through that heavy door, but now he knew that he would have no trouble getting in and out after all. Bernie and Chuck needed no verbal thanks from Gary. The look on his face said it all.   
  
  
*******************  
  
Gary felt very self-conscious, vulnerable, as he rolled through the front doors of McGinty's. As he feared, the room was deathly quiet and every eye was turned on him. Trying to brazen it out, he maneuvered his wheelchair to the center of the room, hoping all the while that no one would notice the trembling in his hands. Over the back wall was a huge banner saying 'Happy Birthday Gary & Welcome Home!' Feeling a little overwhelmed, Gary cleared his throat nervously. He looked around at the expectant faces of his well-wishers, seeing faces he had not seen in years. There were Chuck and his dad, of course. His mom and Jade had the twins off to one side. Marissa, Crumb, and there was Doc Zimmerman! So that was why he wasn't at the hospital to 'see him off'! Was that . . .? It was! Stan Kovaleski, the contractor he had saved from burning to death a couple of years ago. What was . . . And the Porters? Hadn't they moved before he acquired the bar? Miguel Diaz was there, of course. Trust him not to pass up a chance to worm a story out of Gary.   
  
Amanda and her parents were there, along with the kids from the foster home he had saved. Sister Mary and some of the kids from the Center stood near the raised area in the back. He was literally surrounded by family and friends. It was . . . humbling.  
  
"I, ah, I suppose you're expecting a speech?" he joked nervously. "Well, you're out of luck. One a day's my limit. Seriously, this is . . . Thank you. It's, um, it's great to be home." He looked over at his dad and Chuck. "I'm dyin' here, guys! Help me out!"  
  
That brought a few nervous laughs and a general relaxing of the tension he had felt since entering the room. The knot of people by the bar broke up into little groups, each of them coming over to congratulate him and welcome him home. Gary realized that these people, many of whom he saw almost everyday prior to his accident, were just as nervous as he was. It saddened him a little to know that he made everyone so uneasy. Still, they had come, not knowing what to expect from him. That, in itself, spoke volumes about the kind of friends he had.   
  
"So. How does it feel?"  
  
Startled, Gary looked up to see Dr. Zimmerman smiling down at him, although his eyes expressed concern. It took him a moment to understand what the genial physician was asking.   
  
"It . . . it feels good," he replied hesitantly, "and a little scary. Kinda like leaving home for the first time. Does . . . does that make any sense?"  
  
"Perfectly natural," Doc assured him. "You're taking control of your own life again. That's always a heady experience."  
  
Gary glanced over to where his parents were fussing over Jade and the twins. "Oh, I don't know about that," he commented with a wry smile. "So long as those two are around, I have a feeling that being in control won't be an issue. Lord knows I love 'em, but they're very . . . protective. It may be a while before they let me fly on my own."  
  
"Hmm, yes," Doc agreed. "That could be a problem. Just don't let them bully you. It may seem a little harsh, at first, but you have to let them know that you're still capable of making your own decisions."  
  
"Oh, I don't mind a little bullying," Gary smiled. "It's part of who they are. I won't let it get out of hand, though."  
  
Zimmerman patted his shoulder reassuringly. "So long as you know where to draw the line," he said, "you'll do fine. Now, why don't you show me where you live?"  
  
"Th-the loft, you mean?" Gary asked hesitantly. He suddenly felt like someone had been practicing macramé with his insides. "I, ahm, I may need some help getting up there. I hadn't found a contractor for the remodeling, yet. Mom said that Mr. Kovaleski over there might be interested, although I don't know why. He does high-rises and office buildings. Something like this . . . I don't know. Should I even ask, do ya think?"  
  
"Can't hurt to try," the doctor shrugged. "C'mon. If we need to, I'll get someone to help carry you upstairs." He smiled at his patient's sour expression. "You have get up there somehow, unless you plan to move into your office. It won't be as bad as you think."  
  
"You've never seen how steep those stairs are," Gary grumbled. With a sigh, he propelled himself through the office door. "It's your back," he warned.  
  
The first thing Gary noticed was how neat and spacious his office was compared to what he recalled. All the crates and cartons that usually claimed most of the floor space were stacked neatly against the walls, leaving him plenty of room to get behind his desk, as well as a clear path to the stairwell in the back. Except . . . this wasn't his battered old desk! He paused to take a closer look. This was a newer desk, built a little lower with a wider knee space. Most of the desk accessories were on turntables that put everything within easy reach. Gary gave the doctor a questioning glance.   
  
"Don't look at me!" Zimmerman said, hands raised in a gesture of denial. "I just gave them the name of a good furniture store."  
  
Gary grinned and shook his head as he again turned his chair towards the back of the office. The smile died as he caught himself staring at the closed door. He paused, eyes fixed on the area in front of it. An image flashed through his mind. His parents and Crumb, working desperately over a still, bloody shape in the narrow beam of his dad's big flashlight. Marissa standing helplessly off to one side, sightless eyes closed in fervent prayer.   
  
With a shudder, Gary forced his mind back to the present. Taking a slow, deep breath, he tried to slow the galloping pace of his heart.   
  
"Flashback?" Zimmerman asked with concern.  
  
"Sorta," Gary admitted reluctantly, his voice quiet. "I-it's strange. Kinda like I was there, but not there, if that makes any sense. Like I was standing back and . . . watching."  
  
"You may very well have been," the doctor told him, his face serious. "At that moment, you may have been dead, technically. I'm afraid you can look for this to happen again. Probably when you least expect it. Some sight, sound, smell even, will trigger a memory that you've suppressed."  
  
"Wonderful," the younger man sighed, as he moved toward the door. "Something else to look forward to."  
  
In spite of the doctor's warning, Gary was not prepared for his reaction when he first caught sight of the staircase. The images hit him like a sledgehammer. His body lying there, leg twisted at an unnatural angle beneath him, blood everywhere. The smell . . . Dear God, the smell! The sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood! His breath caught in his throat as the memory threatened to overwhelm him. With a choked cry, he spun the chair until he was no longer facing the stairs.  
  
"Of course," Zimmerman sighed, "some of us need less stimulus than others. This is where it happened?"  
  
"Yep," Gary replied in a choked voice, his eyes squeezed shut. His sweat-slick palms grasped the rims of the wheels in a white-knuckled grip. A fine sheen of sweat bathed his pale features as the scene replayed itself in his mind. "That . . . that's where they . . . I don't think I can do this, Doc. I thought I could, but . . ."  
  
"You can't lay the ghosts to rest unless you face them," Doc told him kindly. "Try again. The second time is usually easier."  
  
"God, I hope so," the young barkeep sighed. Eyes still closed, Gary tried to steel himself for the effort. "It's . . . I can still . . . still smell . . . I can still smell the b-blood. Hear my own . . . my own h-heartbeat . . . getting weaker . . . and s-slower. I can . . . can taste . . . taste the blood! In my . . . my mouth . . . How do you fight s-something that strong?"  
  
"By being stronger. Now, turn around."  
  
Gary was so lost in the scene that kept playing itself in his mind, he was totally unaware of the knot of people waiting expectantly on the other side of the office door. It was all he could do to control the trembling of his hands enough to grasp the wheel rims and pivot the chair. He did it, however, with a swiftness that belied the fear that gripped his heart like a vise. Once again, the grisly scene played itself in his mind, but he refused to look away this time. The tumble down the stairs after being slammed against the wall. The sudden agony as his leg snapped. Pain, dizziness, despair as he lay there, waiting to die. Then, he was no longer there! He was on that still too fresh grave in the Hickory cemetery. Collapsing against the wall in his parents' living room, begging his father to believe that he had not gone insane.  
  
Tears left glistening tracks down Gary's cheeks as scene after scene flashed through his mind. Each one leaving its load of sensory 'ghosts' to haunt him as it passed. How much was real? How much 'delusion'? Would he ever know?   
  
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, but was, in fact, only a few seconds, Gary was able to see past the 'ghost' of his senseless death. He squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Some type of motor was attached to the post at the foot of the stair rail. It was also attached to a large metal plate that lay just in front of that very bottom step. A similar plate was folded up against the wall behind the lower landing. What looked like a kind of flat conveyor belt ran up the wall, parallel with the rise of the stairs.  
  
"What the hell is that?" he asked.  
  
"That is Mr. Kovaleski's answer to your problem," his father said from behind him. "These old firehouses weren't exactly meant to be wheelchair friendly. So, he set his engineers a little challenge. How d'ya like his answer?"  
  
Gary edged a little closer to the beveled edge of the bottom platform. It looked . . . interesting. He let his eyes follow the drive mechanism's path where it was imbedded in the wall. He tried to picture himself riding the flimsy looking platform as it rose upwards. On one hand, it looked like . . . fun. On the other . . . he just could not quell the queasy feeling in his stomach.  
  
With a cheerful tone that belied the paleness of his face and the trembling in his hands, Gary managed a wan smile and said, "Lets check it out. How does it work?"  
  
Stan Kovaleski stepped forward and showed him where the controls were hidden in the post at the foot of the stairs. They were easily accessible from any vantage point.  
  
"This raises the bottom plate level with, and up against the landing," the contractor explained. "At the same time, that other plate is lowered so that you roll straight from one to the other. Once you're in place, this button raises you all the way up the stairs. It stops level with the landing. There are matching controls at the top of the stairs, on the wall. Whenever it's not in use, it folds flat against the wall. Simple."  
  
Gary listened carefully to the contractor's instructions, nodding his understanding. It did look simple, but ingenious. Under the circumstances, it was a lot more practical than a conventional chair lift, which would have conveyed him, but not his chair, up and down the stairs. Plus, that lower landing must have presented its own problems. Swallowing back the fear that threatened to completely paralyze him, Gary rolled forward and activated the controls. The mechanism performed flawlessly, as promised. In about as much time as it would have taken for him to climb the stairs on his own, when he could walk, Gary found himself rolling onto the top landing and up to his door. He waited for the others to join him before entering his loft. The wait also gave him time to get himself under control.  
  
"That kid has more guts than I would in his situation," Kovaleski murmured.  
  
"What do you mean?" Bryce Porter asked. "He's just going up some stairs. No big deal."  
  
"Not for me or you," Kurt Porter quietly told his son. "But, you remember how hard it was for me to quit drinking? And that first time I went to see the therapist? How scared I was? Well, Mr. Hobson died on these stairs!"  
  
"Get real, Dad!" the youth snorted. "If he died then he . . ." Comprehension dawned. "You mean like on ER? With the CPR and everything? Awesome!" He looked up at Gary with new respect. "Did he have one of those 'out-of-body' things?"  
  
"Yes, he did," Bernie Hobson spoke up from halfway-up the stairs, "but, he doesn't like to talk about it."  
  
"Talk about what, Dad?"  
  
"Nothing important, Gar," Bernie replied. He shot Bryce a warning glance, shaking his head. The boy nodded as he got the message. 'Don't bring it up.'  
  
Gary waited patiently as they all trouped up the stairs. Without being obvious about it, he took careful note of who had followed him up. These would be the 'conspirators' he would have to thank later for whatever surprise they had on the other side of his door. There were his parents, of course. They were probably the ringleaders. Chuck had to have had a fairly big hand in it, as well as Marissa. The Doc? Gary wasn't sure where he fit. A consultant, maybe? As for Stan Kovaleski and the Porters, that was anyone's guess. He had to admit, though, the chair lift had worked great. Now, if he could just get over the chills that ran down his spine every time he looked at those stairs!  
  
As the last of them stepped onto the landing, Gary began noticing the changes in the stairway. The old sconces that had yet to be rewired when he'd had his accident were gone. Bright, new fixtures now lined the stairs. The work light that had been his downfall was also gone, as was the ancient fixture it had temporarily replaced.   
  
"We took the electrical contractor to court," his mother explained. "They agreed to finish the remainder of the work free of charge since it was their negligence that caused your accident. Mr. Kovaleski said there were no changes in the codes," she added bitterly. "They were trying to gouge you for more money."  
  
"Still, Mom, I didn't have to change the bulb that night," Gary reminded her.  
  
"Still the boy scout," Kovaleski snorted. "They could've dragged the job out for months, Hobson. Be glad your folks saw through 'em. Now, you gonna open that door or not?"  
  
Casting the gruff contractor a bemused smile, Gary turned the chair until he could grasp the doorknob. With a quick twist, he swung the door open and propelled his chair through the opening. The first thing he noticed was the bed. A metal framework ran above the bed, the ends attached to head and foot. A 'trapeze bar', like the one on his bed at the hospital, hung from the center of the arrangement.   
  
The rest of the apartment looked pretty much as he had left it. Just cleaner.   
  
"Check out the kitchen," Bernie suggested a little too casually.  
  
Giving his father a questioning look, Gary obeyed. One look told him that some major remodeling had gone into his tiny kitchenette. All the old cabinetry had been replaced. It still had the same, 'old time' flavor, but the upper cabinets had been replaced by narrow shelves that held all the items he used the least. A claw-like device on an extendible 'arm' hung on a hook by the window. Opening the lower cabinets, he saw that some had been converted to sliding bins, while others were fitted with turntables imbedded into the shelf surfaces. The solid cooking surface was separate from the oven. The space beneath was wide, and deep enough to allow for his chair. All in all, a very practical, user friendly cooking environment. For a cripple. Gary quickly clamped a lid on such bitter thoughts. These people had gone to a lot of trouble for his benefit! The least he could do was show some gratitude. He managed a genuine smile as he turned to face his benefactors.  
  
"This is great, guys!" he said with feigned enthusiasm. "Really great. Thanks."  
  
"That's not all, Gar!" Chuck told him. "Wait'll you see the bathroom!" He could see this was killing Gary. But they had to play it out. So much work had gone into this. So much thought and planning. Gary would rather die than let anyone know that such a public revelation was only rubbing his face in the fact that he may never walk again. But, he couldn't hide his pain from the ones who knew him best.   
  
Marissa could also feel her friend's discomfort, even through his cheerful tone. She wished that she could make a graceful exit and find someplace to hide. It was all she could do not to weep for the pain and misery she could feel emanating from her best friend. Still, she would not abandon him.  
  
Gary quickly maneuvered his way to the bathroom. Right away, he noticed that the door was much wider than it had been. Also, that it was now a swinging door that moved freely either way. The toilet had been replaced by one with a lower profile, and grab-bars had been installed on each side of it. The shower now had bench type seats projecting from the side walls. A Jacuzzi had been installed in the extra space created when they had expanded the back wall outwards into an unused storage area. Again, grab-bars had been attached, to make getting in and out easier. The sink had been lowered, as had the medicine cabinet. Again, everything had been designed to make him as self-sufficient as possible. For a cripple.  
  
"God, I can't wait to use that tub," Gary joked. "No offense, Doc, but I can't wait to get the smell of antiseptic off of me." He turned to face his expectant audience with a grateful smile. "Really, this is outstanding. When . . .?"  
  
"Mr. Kovaleski approached us as soon as he heard of your . . .situation," Bernie told his son. "Did all this for free," he added with an all-encompassing gesture. "Talk about an offer we couldn't refuse!"  
  
Gary turned a questioning glance on the stocky contractor. "Thanks, Mr. Kovaleski," he said. "Don't get me wrong. I'm . . . Why?"  
  
"It was Porter's idea," Kovaleski shrugged. "Seems we both owe you big time. Me from when you saved me from that explosion, even though we were on opposite sides on that Greek Town issue. And him . . ."  
  
"If you hadn't stuck your nose in where it didn't belong," Kurt Porter spoke up, pulling his wife and youngest son in closer, "I'd have lost everything that really mattered to me. I could've killed my wife with my bare hands in a drunken rage. Or lost my sons forever. When I first laid eyes on you, I thought you were out to destroy my marriage. Instead, you saved it. And our lives."  
  
"Once Kurt was able to get himself in hand," Nikki Porter added with a smile, "he talked me into giving him one more chance. It was a good decision. Thank you for giving us that choice."  
  
"Um, y-you're welcome," Gary stammered self-consciously. "All of you. And thanks for . . . for all of this. I'd been . . . I mean . . .Why don't we all go to the sofa," he suggested as he propelled himself back into the main living area. "Chuck, could you see if there's any soda in the fridge for the . . ." He froze as he saw what was set up in the area between the sofa and the back windows. "Wh-what . . ?" A set of parallel bars stretched most of the length of the wall. Mats cushioned the floor directly beneath and to either side. There was just enough room at either end for Gary to maneuver his chair up to the bars. For some reason, the sight of them affected Gary more than any of the other changes in his loft. He had to swallow past the sudden dryness in his mouth before he could speak. "Why those? Wh-why put those in?" he asked in a choked voice.  
  
His mother placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Because we know you, Gary," she told him in a soft voice. "We know you won't give up. You don't know how."  
  
It was too much. Gary tried to hold back the tears. He didn't want these people who had tried so hard to please him, to help him . . . He didn't want them to think he was hurt or ungrateful. Still, the tears came. That one gesture of . . .faith . . . was his undoing.   
  
"Thank you," he whispered. He reached across his chest to grasp the hand on his shoulder, looking up at her with eyes full of tears . . . and gratitude. "Thanks, all of you. I-I can't . . . You don't know how much this . . . Thank you."  
  
There was a moment of embarrassed silence. Then . . .  
  
"Mom! I'm starved. Can we get a hot dog?"  
  
Wiping at the tears streaming down his face, Gary joined in the relieved laughter at Tommy Porter's outburst. "Sure you can," he chuckled. "And I'm sure there's some cake down there, too. Let's all get back to the party before they think the guest of honor's fled the coop."  
  
As Chuck and Marissa led the exodus back downstairs, Lois and Bernie stayed back to give Gary one more surprise.  
  
"I almost threw this away when they gave me your things at the hospital that night," Lois admitted. "But, your dad thought you might want it. As a memento."  
  
She handed him the object that she had been carrying in her pocket all day. An Omega analog calendar watch. Gary instantly recognized it as the one he had been wearing that night. His hand trembled just a little as he took it. It still seemed in pretty good shape, but it was not running for some reason. Looking closer, he paled slightly when noted the date. It was frozen on May 20, 2000. The time was 4:42 AM.  
  
"That's . . . that's when they called . . . Oh, God! I can't . . ." Lois buried her face against her husband's shoulder.  
  
"That's when they pronounced you dead," Bernie finished for her, his voice almost too soft to be heard. "We don't know why it stopped. You weren't wearing it when they tried to . . . to bring you back. But, no one's been able to fix it. Sorry, Gar. I know it was your favorite."  
  
"S'okay, Dad. Mom," Gary assured them, a little dazed. "They, um, they gave me a new watch at the hospital. Like to see the inscription? It's . . . it's a little . . . Um, here."  
  
His parents were both impressed by the obvious quality of the timepiece, but paled even further when they read the 'birth dates'.  
  
"Fourteen minutes," Lois breathed. "You were . . . you were gone for fourteen minutes? Oh, Gary!" She released her husband and threw her arms around her grim faced son. "Oh my God!"  
  
"What's wrong, honey?" Bernie asked, puzzled by her reaction and Gary's grim silence. "So he was gone for fourteen minutes. People have been brought back after longer than that. Haven't they."  
  
"Sure, Dad," Gary agreed quietly. "But, 4:42 is when they gave up trying. Which means . . . which means I was probably 'gone' a lot longer than that."  
  
"Still . . ."  
  
Lois turned her face just enough to be heard when she spoke. "Bernie," she sighed, "under 'normal' circumstances, brain death occurs in ten."  
  
"My God . . .!" Bernie spoke softly as he, too, knelt to embrace his wife and son. "Doc Carter said you must have someone watchin' over you, but . . . I had no idea . . ."  
  
Gary pushed away from their huddle as he tried to swallow past a huge constriction in his throat. "He said that, huh?" he sniffled. "What, I have some kind of guardian angel keeping me safe? Well, excuse me if I don't feel very 'protected' right now. I'm supposed to be out there saving people and I have to have my whole apartment rebuilt so I can go to the bathroom! I-if I'm so 'blessed', then why am I still in this chair? All my tests keep coming back great, so why can I only feel my legs if somebody sticks a needle in 'em? And then just enough to know I still have legs!"   
  
Dejected, Gary looked down at where his hands were rubbing briskly against his jeans. Something that he should have been able to feel before he saw it. He stopped, clamping his hands together to stop them from trembling. Embarrassed by his outburst, he found it hard to meet the open concern in his parents' faces. All the tension and anxiety that had been building up all day had finally come spilling out, on the very people he least wanted to hurt in the entire world.  
  
"I'm . . . I'm sorry, Mom. Dad," he mumbled. "I shouldn't have . . . It's just so hard, sometimes, to keep up a 'good front', so to speak. And with so many people watching me, waiting to see if . . . It's a little . . .overwhelming, I guess. And I'm . . . I'm just so tired."  
  
"S'okay, Gar," his dad said with a sad smile. "Don't worry about it. We're your parents. That what we're here for. To listen when you need to shout and scream and bang your head on the walls. Part of the job description," he shrugged. "Considering the alternative . . . Well, I'll take a few minutes of ranting over an eternity of silence any day."  
  
He knelt down so that he was looking up into his son's down turned face. Placing one hand on Gary's knee, he continued.  
  
"Think about it, son. It's a miracle that you're still alive!" he reminded him in, for Bernie, an unnaturally soft tone. "You've been a living miracle for us since the day you were born. Now, knowing what we know, I feel like we were twice blessed just to have you around this long! Every day that you're alive, for us, is proof that someone has His hand out, ready to catch you every time you miss a step. Sure, you can't walk. Today. The rest of you is okay! At least your brain wasn't scrambled." He cast Lois a sly wink. "Not much, anyway."  
  
"Very funny, Dad." Gary's lips twitched into a hesitant smile.  
  
"Atta boy," Bernie grinned. "I knew you still had one or two of those locked away somewhere. Quit thinking about what you can't do and start thinking about what you can. And, while you're at it, quit worrying about what anyone else thinks. The only one you have to prove anything to is yourself. Nobody else's opinion matters in this. Not even ours." He gave Gary's knee a gentle shake. "Somebody has to be looking out after you, or we'd be laying flowers on your grave. But, they can't protect you from everything. You just have to get past the pain, son. Once you do that, you'll be able to see an end to this nightmare. We know you, son. Know that you don't know how to quit. And, we'll be here for you. No matter what."  
  
Head still bowed, Gary gave his dad a sideways look. Then, he reached out a shaky hand to clasp the one that rested on his knee. "Thanks," he whispered. "Thanks. And, you're right. I can't just . . . give up. I have to tough this out to the end."  
  
"Of course I'm right!" Bernie snorted. "Haven't you heard? 'Father Knows Best'?" At Gary's blank look, he let out a frustrated sigh. "Sorry. Wrong generation. C'mon, let's get downstairs before they send a search party."  
  
*************************  
  
Gary let his parents descend first, mainly because he didn't want them seeing how badly the stairs unnerved him. He idly wondered how long it would be before he could face any flight of stairs without cold chills running up and down his spine. This one, the one where it actually happened . . . He closed his eyes and, for a moment, he could feel himself falling again, feel the impact as he hit the wall . . .!  
  
"Gary? Are you alright, Hon?"  
  
With a start, Gary snapped back to the present. He had rolled the chair as far back from the landing as he could get without creating a new window. It took him a moment to realize what had happened. Another damned flashback! How long were those likely to last.  
  
"I-I'm fine, Mom," he called down when he could get the tremor out of his voice. And his racing heart down to a safer rhythm. "Just, um, just let me know when you're clear."  
  
"Uh huh!" Somehow, she didn't sound convinced. "Well, don't come down just yet. Ms Brigatti wants to come up. Is it okay?"  
  
Brigatti? When did she . . .? Where had she . . . ? Why hadn't she at least . . .? His mind in a whirl of confusion, he barely realized his mom had repeated the question.  
  
"Huh? Um, yeah! Sure! I'll, ahm, I'll wait."  
  
Gary nervously wiped his sweaty palms on his pants legs, unable to silence the pounding of his heart. After such a long absence, why would Toni show up today of all days? Then again, she probably saw this as the perfect time. When they couldn't be alone together long enough to really resolve anything. Or for anything to happen.  
  
He found himself counting each slow footstep until Brigatti came into view, and their eyes met. For the life of him, Gary could not understand how just the sight of this tiny, tough-as-nails woman could make him feel as if he were perched on the edge of an abyss, with no way to go but down. Even before, she had always made him feel so . . . vulnerable. Now . . .   
  
"Y-you're, um, you're lookin' good, Brigatti," he stammered nervously, looking away. "Nice tan." He tried to suppress a wince at the lame observation, with little success. 'Of course she had a nice tan!' he thought. 'She just got back from the Mediterranean, you idiot!' "W-would you like to . . . I mean . . . Um, let's . . . let's get out of this hallway." 'And away from those stairs,' he added to himself.  
  
"What's the matter, Hobson," Brigatti teased as she slid past him to the door. "You seem a little . . . antsy."  
  
"Stairs," he confessed with a shudder. "I'm not too . . . comfortable . . . w-with stairs just yet. Coming up was bad enough. Going down . . . They, um, they may have to sedate me the first coupla times."  
  
Brigatti felt a chill run up her spine at his half-joking confession. Her hand froze on the door for a split second as an image flashed through her mind. An image of Gary lying motionless and alone on the darkened stairway. With an effort, she shoved the grisly image from her mind and continued into the loft. If it was that bad for her, how much worse must it be for him? she wondered.  
  
Her trained eye quickly took in the outward changes that had been made since her last visit. The bed and the parallel bars being the most obvious. The half-sized side-by-side fridge seemed to just blend in with the tiny kitchenette.   
  
"So! Um, like your new décor," she commented, wincing at how banal that sounded. "Seems very . . . practical."  
  
"Oh! Yes! Yes, it is!" Gary sounded relieved at the change in topic. "Um, very . . . practical. Can I get you anything? I haven't checked out the fridge yet, but, knowing Mom, I'm sure it's stocked for an army. Have a seat while I see . . ."  
  
"Gary."  
  
He froze, half turned, at the gentle tone of her voice. 'Gentle' was not a term normally one associated with the fiery detective. Gary knew that she had a softer side. She had just never shown it to him.   
  
"I didn't come up here for a drink," she told him. "I can get that downstairs." She walked slowly over to the couch and perched nervously on the edge. "I need to talk to you . . . privately. And that was something we couldn't do in the hospital. Too many people coming and going."  
  
"So you couldn't even visit?" he mumbled dejectedly. "Or call? Just to let me know you were . . . you were still alive?"   
  
"I guess not," she answered truthfully. "When Winslow told us that you . . . that they had to . . . Could you at least look at me while I'm pouring my heart out here?"  
  
Reluctantly, Gary turned the chair so that he was facing her. The guarded look on his face almost broke Toni's heart, knowing that she, and others like her had put it there by walking all over his. She knew his history. Practically everyone on the force knew him by now. Knew that he put his life at risk more often than any cop on the street, for people he didn't even know. She also knew that every time he had opened his heart to someone, dared to try to love again, something would go wrong. And each rejection had left him even more defensive. And more vulnerable. Finding it impossible to say what she had to say while looking into those incredibly expressive eyes, she dropped her own gaze.  
  
"Wh-when I saw you lying there, in that bed," she continued, "with all those wires, and the monitors beeping, and you were so . . . still! I thought, 'Oh my God! I almost lost him!' And that . . . that frightened me! Suddenly, it hit me that I . . . I actually care what happens to you! That in some . . . bizarre way . . . you've become an important part of my life. That losing you would . . . before we even have a chance to know where this . . . this thing we have between us could go . . ." She looked up to see him watching her with that same guarded expression. "Could you say something?" she pleaded. "Anything?"  
  
Gary lowered his eyes, noticing for the first time how tightly his hands were gripping his thighs. Reflexively, he began rubbing his legs as if wiping the sweat from his palms.  
  
"What do you want me to say?" he asked, his voice low with a slight rasp to it. "That it's okay? Sure it is. I'm just as scared as you are. Probably worse. That I feel something for you, too? Th-that's a tough one. 'Cause I don't know what I'm supposed to feel anymore. Seems like every time I go down that road . . . it dead-ends. But, I think it's . . . it's kinda sad that it takes something like this before you can even admit that you have any feelings for me at all. So, um, where does that leave us?" he asked, finally meeting her gaze with an expectant look of his own. "Or is it only because of . . . of this chair . . .that you feel . . . it's safe?"   
  
At that moment, he looked so open, vulnerable, and so . . . hurt, Brigatti couldn't stand it. How could he even think that! Maybe because she had thought it herself. Feeling hurt, and more than a little guilty, Brigatti leaped to her feet, startling him. She mumbled something that sounded to him like, 'This was a big mistake.' Hurt, he tried to back up to give her room, only to have her catch her ankle on one of his foot pedals. As she started to fall, he instinctively grabbed her, guiding her into the safe harbor of his lap. Safe for her, at any rate.  
  
Once more, they found themselves gazing deeply into one another's eyes. Their lips so close, each could feel the soft exhalations of the other's breath. Then those same lips were pressing against each other hungrily, both seeking to explore the depths of their passion to the fullest. For the tiniest moment, Brigatti felt as if she were being drawn into a vortex of raw, primal emotion, then . . . Gary was pushing her away.   
  
With an abruptness, that left her reeling, he set her on her feet and turned away.  
  
"I think you'd better go," he told her in a husky whisper. "Before we let this go . . . someplace neither of us is ready to go right now."  
  
Stunned and angry, Brigatti grabbed the chair and spun him around to face her. "And what makes you think I'd lose control that easy, Hobson?" she snapped, forgetting her own earlier feelings of shame and guilt. "You think, just because you've been dumped before that every woman is out to break your heart? Well, let me be the first to tell you that you just . . . are . . . not . . . worth . . . the effort." And she stormed out, slamming the door with a reverberating bang.  
  
"I know," Gary sighed. He leaned forward, keeping his hands cupped over his lap. He had been so embarrassed when he had felt those first . . . stirrings. All he could think to do was get to her off of him before she felt it, too. That would only have led to her sharing his embarrassment. Better for him to bear his pain alone than to let that happen! At least now Chuck's question was answered. But, had he driven Toni away for good this time? Rolling his chair over to the window, he watched as she half ran from the building, got into her car, and roared off. Probably so.  
  
"Gary? Are you alright?"  
  
'Oh, God! Please!' he moaned to himself. 'Not now!' "I'm fine, Mom," he called out, hoping she would stop at the door. No such luck.  
  
She took one look at his face, so full of misery, despair, and a huge, whopping dose of red-faced embarrassment and instantly knew what had happened. "Oh, dear," she sighed. "Sweetie, your timing sucks."  
  
"Tell me something I don't know, Mom," Gary sighed. "I just . . . I couldn't . . . Not now!"  
  
Lois quickly crossed the room and took him in her arms. After a moment's hesitation, he returned the embrace, burying his face against her waist.   
  
"How'd my life get so screwed up, Mom?" he groaned miserably. "What did I ever do to deserve everything that's happened to me?"  
  
"Dear," Lois sighed, "Hitler didn't deserve half of what's happened to you." She smiled as her little joke got a snuffled laugh from her son. She placed a gentle kiss on the top of his head. "Better now?"  
  
"Some," Gary admitted. He released his hold on her, wiping the tears from his eyes. He rewarded her with a hesitant smile, little more than a slight up turning of the corner of his mouth. "I guess I should go downstairs, huh?"  
  
"It would be nice if the guest of honor made an appearance," Lois agreed with a nod of her head. "Late-comers have been asking if they were a day early." She couldn't help but notice the way his face closed up. "Is it the stairs?"  
  
Gary shot his mother a startled look. How could she read him so easy? Was it one of those 'Mom' things? "You're spooky, you know that?" he told her with a tiny smile. "It's these damned . . . sorry, darned flashbacks. Seems like the least little thing can trigger one and, ho-ho-ho boy! Those stairs!" He shook his head and rolled forward. "Well, I can't put it off forever." He paused, turning to look back at Lois. "Would you mind if I went down first? I may need you to give me a shove."  
  
"No problem, sweetie," Lois assured him with an impish grin. "If I have to, I'll get you on that contraption kicking and screaming."  
  
"Just kicking would be nice," Gary murmured sadly, too low for her to hear.  
  
***********************  
  
The days passed quickly after that. Gary soon found that Dr. Zimmerman was right about one thing. The flashbacks became less frequent in time, although no less severe. He found the easiest way to deal with them was to let them run their course and go on. There were times, especially in the middle of an 'errand', when he just had to push them to the back of his mind to be dealt with later.   
  
Gary soon learned how to get over or around most obstacles, and who to call on for help when he found one he couldn't overcome on his own. Paul Armstrong proved a valuable ally, at times, although he often cast questioning glances his way. And Chuck kept finding excuses to delay his return home. Excuses that Jade, wisely, never questioned. She was well aware of the special bond between the two men that went way past friendship, or even brotherhood. No one else had ever taken the time to get to know her husband the way Gary had. To get past his drive for wealth and notoriety, to see his true nature.  
  
Besides, it delayed the day she would have to board a long, tedious flight with the twins. That, she was most definitely not looking forward to.  
  
September soon rolled over into October, and Halloween was fast approaching. That brought a rise in the number of 'errands' he had to run as people started pulling silly, and risky pranks in the name of 'fun.' Pranks that were not confined to the young. He had to perform CPR on a man who had let himself be sealed in a coffin so that he could leap out and scare a bunch of school children. Problem was, the coffin was real, and airtight. All the while, he was watching out for the return of a certain pair of 'sisters' who had once been convinced he was a warlock.   
  
Diane came over twice a week to help him continue his therapy. Even when she was not there, he would put in at least a brief session on the bars, no matter how tired he was. He and the young therapist were heartened on her last visit when he managed to move his right leg just a fraction of an inch. It wasn't much, Gary reasoned, but gave him more hope than he had felt since leaving the hospital.  
  
The only black cloud on the whole month was the way a certain fiery Italian avoided him. He had tried to call several times, to apologize. Each time, all he had ever gotten was a co-worker, or an answering machine. He was tempted, several times, but he just could not say what he wanted to say to a soulless machine.  
  
The evening before the big day, Gary came home to find detectives Armstrong and Winslow sitting in his office. He had long ago stopped asking about Brigatti, and they were kind enough not to mention her. Still, he wondered.  
  
"Kinda late for a visit, isn't it," Gary commented as he rolled up to his desk. He paused as he took in the way too serious expression on Winslow's face. Armstrong always looked grim. Winslow was usually a little more laid back. "Or is this business?"  
  
Armstrong, as usual, cut right to the chase. "You remember Aristotle Savalas?"  
  
A chill ran down Gary's spine at the mention of the ex-cop. He, in collusion with his brother-in-law in the Medical Examiner's office, had run a murder-for-hire racket that a reporter, Frank Scanlon, had gotten too close to. When Gary had tried to prevent the reporter's murder, he had arrived just a few minutes too late. As a result, he had been arrested, eventually ending up on the run from both the police and the real killer. Savalas. A late-night confrontation had ended with Armstrong on the way to the hospital with Savalas' bullet in his leg, Brigatti riding in the same ambulance fighting off the effects of a dose of Seconal, and Savalas and company on their way to jail. Gary was finally cleared of all charges and allowed to go home.  
  
That was when the nightmares had started. Of himself running through dark streets, or darker alleys. Of faceless people pointing accusing fingers at him, calling out his name, and the word 'murderer' in the same breath. Others pointed guns at him and shouted for him to 'freeze!' Then fired. Sometimes it was the chest. Other times, he was able to turn so that he was hit in the back. Either way, he awoke to the memory of a sharp, burning pain in his chest or back, sweat bathing him from head to toe.  
  
"Hobson? Gary? Are you okay, man?"   
  
With a startled gasp, Gary snapped his attention back to the present, belatedly realizing that Winslow had repeated his concerned question.  
  
"Sorry," he murmured softly. "Flashback. Y-yeah, I remember Savalas. Not likely to forget him anytime soon, am I? Why? What's he done, now?"  
  
"He escaped this morning," Armstrong told him bluntly. "His lawyer was appealing, based on some new evidence. Manufactured, I'm sure," he added dryly. "Anyway, when they were transporting Savalas to the courthouse, some drunk rammed the squad car. No one was seriously hurt, but the prisoner slipped away in the confusion. It wasn't 'til much later, once everything was sorted out, that one of the officers realized his key was missing. So, by now, Savalas has slipped his cuffs, and could be anywhere. Even Canada."  
  
"But, you don't think so," Gary ventured to guess. "You think . . . you think he'll come here. After me. Why? What could he gain?"  
  
"Revenge," Winslow told him. "Brigatti wouldn't 've known where to dig if you hadn't pointed her in the right direction. And Savalas had everyone else fooled, too." He avoided looking at the man beside him.  
  
But, Armstrong was not going to let himself off the hook so easily. "Especially me," he said bitterly. "You were the one who brought him down, Hobson. You're the one he's been telling his cellmate that he intends to 'settle things' with."  
  
"Lucky me," Gary sighed. "So. What are we talking here? Protective custody? I'm not letting you put me in a cell. And I'm betting safe-houses that are wheelchair accessible are a rarity. Where does that leave us?"  
  
"With an armed guard at your door 24/7 until he's caught," Armstrong told him in no uncertain terms. "Or we have a confirmed sighting in either Canada or Mexico. I'd prefer Hell, but I don't have any reliable informants there."  
  
"You'll be pretty much under house arrest," Winslow apologized. "You go nowhere, see no one outside of your family and closest friends until we can be sure you're safe. We'd prefer that you remain confined to your loft for the duration."  
  
"That's not acceptable," Gary replied with a shake of his head. "There's too much I have to do. Some of it I can do from here, some I can't. And, it's not stuff I can let slide for another day. There has to be something else"  
  
"I'm sorry, Gary," Armstrong sighed. And Gary believed he was. He almost never used his first name. "But, this is the best we can come up with. As unpredictable as your activities are during the day, he knows that this is the one place you always come back to. But, he also knows the location of every safe-house that would suit your needs. As you pointed out, there aren't that many. And we don't have enough manpower to keep following you all over the city."  
  
"Then don't," Gary told them bitterly. "As someone told me not so long ago, I'm not worth it." He wrapped his arms around his aching head and lowered it to his desk. "I'm sorry. I know you guys are doing all you can. It's just . . . so much has happened this year. And I don't know where it's gonna end. Or how." He looked up to meet the big detective's troubled gaze. "My parents, Chuck and Jade. They're as much at risk as I am. I may have to stay here, but they can't. There's not enough room."  
  
"Brigatti already has them tucked away, safe and sound," Winslow assured him. He pretended not to notice the pained look that crossed Hobson's face at the merest mention of the little Italian's name. "We couldn't find Miss Clark, though."  
  
"She went to visit her mother this week," he told them. "Thank God, for small favors. I'll need to close the . . .oh, man!"  
  
"What?" both detectives chorused. Just when things were going so well!  
  
"I'm hosting a costume party for a charity benefit tomorrow night," he told them. "It's small, but about half the guests will be from out of state. There's no way I can cancel in time. And it's likely to go on 'til way past midnight."  
  
"Do you have a guest list?" Winslow asked.   
  
"That's right! We can check ID's at the door!" His expression fell again. "But, everyone will be in costume. How can we be sure?"  
  
"We'll just have to make sure," Armstrong told him. "Could you, maybe, persuade them to move it elsewhere?"  
  
"Do you have any idea how many costume balls, benefits and just plain parties will be going on tomorrow night?" Gary asked with a shake of his head. "They considered us as scraping the bottom of the barrel. No, they won't be able to move it. If it'll help, though, I'll just make a token appearance and head to my loft early in the evening. The staff can handle things and try to close up at a reasonable hour."  
  
"That sounds like our best bet," Armstrong agreed. "With any luck, the bastard's halfway to Moose Jaw, by now."  
  
"Amen to that," Gary sighed.  
  
*********************  
  
It was late when Gary finally was able to call it a night. After the two detectives had delivered their disturbing news and left two officers to baby-sit him, Gary had been force to drag them along for a couple of 'errands'. They had looked at him strangely when he had insisted on speaking to some stranger on the street about nothing until a speeding car had passed. It was also a little hard to convince them to call the fire department to a supposedly empty tenement, until they saw the smoke. By which time, Gary had already alerted the people using the bottom floor, who, in turn were enlisted to clear the rest of the building.   
  
They had then returned to McGinty's, where Gary spent the rest of the evening finalizing the guest list for the next day's event. Another twenty people had been added. Which meant more food and drinks. Some had special diet requests, either for health or religious reasons. And of course there were those who had to have a particular brand of either whiskey or beer that had to be special ordered ASAP. He wondered if those cases of Glenlivet were still downstairs. His client had hinted at a contribution for a little side auction. A couple of those should bring a good price. He had Graham check, and was relieved to learn that no one had disturbed them since his accident. Gary had two carried up for the auction and two more set aside for gifts. Mr. Kovaleski, he had learned, had a special appreciation for good malt whiskey.  
  
By the time he was finally able to call it a day and ride the lift to his apartment, Gary was too tired to worry about flashbacks. Exhausted, he took a quick shower and levered himself into bed. There had been no time to even think about the implications of Armstrong and Winslow's warning that afternoon. Now, with nothing more to occupy his mind, it was all he could think of. Would the rogue ex-cop really feel he was worth the risk? Or had he already crossed the border into Canada? Gary recalled the list of victims Scanlon had compiled, the gruesome ways some of them had died. The man was just twisted enough to put revenge as a priority over escape.  
  
Gary's body finally succumbed to the need for rest. His mind, however, had other plans.   
  
Once more, Gary found himself huddled in the mouth of some dark alleyway, his breath making tiny clouds as he tried to still the pounding of his heart. It was so cold! He was clad only in the thin shirt and slacks of the standard jailhouse uniform, and a stolen cap and jacket. It was not enough. If he didn't find shelter soon, he would die. But, where could he go?   
  
Brigatti pulled her gun and told him to freeze! Cold, hungry and desperately tired, Gary just looked at her with sad, dispirited eyes. 'Or what?' he'd asked. This time he was answered with the roar of a pistol shot! Pain tore through his chest! Looking down, he saw his heart's blood spilling out in an ever widening stain as . . .  
  
Gary awoke, struggling upright as the pain in his lungs settled into a dull ache. Gasping for breath, he looked around frantically. He wasn't in Brigatti's brownstone, or in that freezing alley. He was at home, in his own bed. Safe. With a ragged sigh, he lay back, letting the warmth of his covers drain the chill from his body. That one was a first. He had dreamed that Brigatti had shot at him many times. But, never that she had actually killed him! Their last argument must have left a really bad taste in his subconscious!  
  
Unable to go back to sleep, or completely stop the tremors from his tired muscles, Gary levered himself back into his chair and headed for the bathroom. What he needed was a hot soak. Something to ease the cold knot of fear in his stomach. Not to mention the icy chill that had settled into his bones.  
  
The moment the tub was full, and steam had created a pleasantly muggy fog in the bathroom, Gary slid into the warm, burbling water and settled back with a sigh of contentment. Arms spread along the rim of the tub, he lay his head back and closed his eyes, letting the heat soak into every fiber of his body.   
  
What was that? Gary pulled himself up until he was sitting ramrod straight in the tub. He was sure he had heard something. Like the creak of a floorboard. Listening intently, he waited for the sound to be repeated. When it wasn't, Gary decided it must have been his imagination and settled back nervously until his head rested on the rim of the tub. God! His nerves must be totally shot! 'First that dream, now this,' he thought to himself. Would he ever have a decent night's rest again?  
  
Gary's eyes shot open. There it was again! He started to raise his head to look around once more, only to freeze as he caught a twisted reflection in the chrome of the grab-bar. The bathroom door was slowly swinging open behind him. Alarmed, Gary tried to pull himself upright, only to find a calloused hand clamped over his mouth, shoving him back and down, into the warm, bubbling water! Desperately, he pushed at the arm, trying to break free! Air! He needed . . .!  
  
Gary sat straight up in bed, his lungs drawing air in a huge, wheezing gulp! Dazed and shaken, it was a moment or two before he realized where he was. Panting, as if he had just run a marathon, he sat there, propped on his arms, as he tried to still the racing of his heart. Damn! Even his nightmares were having nightmares!  
  
******************  
  
The next day found Gary a little out of sorts. His sleep had been disturbed several more times by progressively worse nightmares. The fact that he had to drag around two bodyguards to a near drowning, a hold-up, two car wrecks and a warehouse fire did nothing to improve his mood. While they had proven useful, the strange looks they kept giving him got on his nerves.   
  
By that evening he was so tense, it was all he could do to concentrate on the final preparations for the benefit. So far, there had been nothing in the paper about Savalas. But, that didn't mean anything. He had seen the paper change between one 'errand' and the next many, many times.  
  
Finally, it was time. His clients showed up in elegant, if garish, costumes to start the festivities. Gary had finally conceded to wearing a costume, of sorts. He had come dressed as Franklin D. Roosevelt.   
  
Gary's 'token appearance' lasted from eight o'clock, when the first guest arrived, until almost one in the morning. The client had further expanded the guest list without consulting Gary, which left him having to placate the client, his guests, and the officers checking ID's. He also had to call in extra help. By the time all the new guests had arrived, speeches had been made, and Gary could safely make his exit, it was well after midnight. Too exhausted to care about flashbacks, he rode the lift upstairs and headed straight for the bathroom.   
  
He briefly debated between shower or Jacuzzi. The shower would be quicker, but the thought of letting the eddies of water massage the aches from his body was just too appealing. It took only a few minutes to let the tub fill, and to strip out of his clothes. Carefully laying a large bath wrap, a birthday gift from Chuck, over the seat of the wheelchair, he lifted one leg at a time over the rim and slid into the bubbling water. With a sigh of contentment, Gary leaned his head against the tile, closed his eyes, and relaxed for the first time since Armstrong and Winslow had showed up in his office the day before. Just this once, someone else was going to have to stop the bad guy.  
  
Suddenly, Gary felt a cold chill run up his spine, even in the heated water. Something was wrong. He sat up a little straighter in the tub, looking around. Nothing. Was it his imagination playing tricks on him? Some new kind of torment from an already overwrought subconscious? Or was someone else in the loft with him? He listened carefully for some strange noise to be repeated, but the only sounds he heard were from the Jacuzzi and the party downstairs. Finally, deciding it must be his imagination after all, Gary settled back into the warm bubbles.  
  
His eyes half-closed as he tried to let the water do its work, he almost missed it. A twisted, funhouse reflection in the chrome of the grab-bar. For just a moment, Gary thought he was re-living his 'dream-within-a-dream' from the night before. Still, he could not tear his eyes away from the warped reflection of the bathroom door easing open. Of the alien-like features of a familiar face. He needed to move, to get away. He knew that! But, how . . .?  
  
The calloused hand clamped over his mouth, just like in the dream! Gary found himself being pushed beneath the roiling surface, fighting to hold on to the precious air that he had sucked into his lungs at the last possible second! Pushing and beating against the hands that held him under did no good! His assailant was too strong! Red lights danced before his eyes, his lungs burning as he felt consciousness slipping from him.   
  
A rough hand grabbed a handful of his thick, dark hair and hauled him upwards. Gasping and choking, it was all Gary could do just to get air into his starving lungs. The grip on his hair tightened and yanked upwards, hurling him face down onto the cold, hard tiles.   
  
Dazed, naked, fighting for breath, Gary knew that he was totally at the mercy of his attacker. All he could do was try to get some strength back and find out who he was dealing with, although, he had a sneaking suspicion this wasn't just an overzealous trick-or-treat. Somehow, Savalas had slipped past the guards downstairs. His guess was confirmed when he felt some kind of covering land on top of him and a familiar voice growled, "Cover yourself, Hobson. You're a disgrace."  
  
Gary reached a shaky hand to pull the big towel around him. Before he could grasp the covering, something hard struck him with breath-taking force just below his right ribs! Another caught him in the pit of his stomach, threatening to expel the little bit he had managed to eat that night all over his bathroom floor. Several more blows caught him in the chest, the thigh, his right arm, and a glancing impact with his head. Defenseless, all he could do was wrap his arms around his head and pray.   
  
"Get up, you son of a b---!" the ex-cop snarled. "I want you to see it coming!"  
  
Hesitantly, Gary reached out, unable to stop the trembling in his hand. Feeling humiliated, helpless, and exposed, he still managed to drag himself to the door. Releasing the doorstop, which had dropped when Savalas had burst in, he pulled his chair into position and locked it down. That was as far as his battered body would allow him to go, at first. He had to rest a moment before he was able to haul himself into the seat. A process made even more difficult by the fact that his right arm was almost numb from the shoulder down. At least it still obeyed his commands. Finally he was settled into the seat.  
  
Gingerly fastening the wrap around his waist, Gary draped the large bath towel over his useless legs. Finally feeling some measure of decency restored, he looked up to meet his attacker's astonished gaze. Gary met that gaze as steadily as his bloody countenance could manage. The right side of his face already felt swollen, painful.  
  
Stunned, Savalas lowered the gun he had intended to use on his helpless victim. He stepped forward, amused when Gary rolled back until he hit the wall.  
  
"Well, well, well!" he gloated. "I thought it was just a prop! Part of your costume. Very clever, Hobson! What happened?"  
  
"Does it matter?" Gary mumbled around his swollen jaw. "You're . . . you're gonna kill me anyway."  
  
"That's a given," Savalas chuckled. "I was going to have a little fun with you before I killed you. But this changes everything! Now, I can have lots of fun! Oh, this is priceless! The biggest thorn in my side, the man who ruined my whole operation, who beat the crap out of me . . . is completely at my mercy! This is so rich!" He waved the gun in the general direction of the door. "Let's take this conversation to more comfortable settings. Outside."  
  
Awkwardly, Gary maneuvered the chair out of the bathroom, stopping, at Savalas direction, near the foot of his bed. He sat there, mind racing for a solution as his tormentor slipped up behind him. Cold steel clamped tightly around his left wrist, so tight it bit deeply into the tender flesh. Gary winced, hissing as his arm was yanked brutally back and fastened to the frame of the wheelchair.   
  
"It may be hours before anyone thinks to check on you," the ex-cop chuckled evilly. "Lots of time for us to get reacquainted. After all, we hardly knew each other before Scanlon died."  
  
"Before you murdered him, you mean" Gary grated out between clenched teeth. "What is it you want, Savalas? Revenge? Kind of a hollow victory, isn't it? Taking out a cripple? Seems a little . . . beneath you, somehow. Or are you trying for new, unh!" Gary's head rocked back as Savalas delivered a brutal backhanded blow across his mouth. "New lows," he finished, wiping a tiny trickle of blood from his split lip. He glared up at his captor defiantly.   
  
The felon just shook his head with a low chuckle. Bending down, he grabbed his prisoner by the chin in a brutal grip. "I'm sorry we didn't get to know each other better before I framed you," he said. "You're a very funny guy! Too bad." He straightened up, releasing his bruising grip on Gary's face with a snap of his wrist. Dismissing him as helpless, Savalas turned his back on his wheelchair-bound captive. "I like what you've done with the place," he commented, looking around. "Shame you won't be needing it anymore."  
  
Gary looked around frantically for something he could use as a weapon. His hockey stick and baseball bat were leaning against the pillar by the door. Nothing else seemed even remotely suitable . . . except . . . Something round and white stuck out from under the corner of the bed. The top of his bowling pin? How had that gotten there? Carefully, ignoring the strain it put on his left arm and making as little noise as possible, he reached down and grasped his makeshift club by the neck.   
  
"Fire that gun," he said as he dangled the club out of sight, "and every real cop in the place'll be up here before you can blink twice."  
  
The fugitive turned, giving him a questioning look. "What did you say?"  
  
"I said you'll never get away with . . ."  
  
"No, no, no," Savalas cut in. "You said 'every real cop'. Like I wasn't a real cop? I was on the force when you were still in knee pants!"  
  
"That may be true," Gary taunted him. "But, that doesn't mean you were a cop. You were just another goon with a gun! The only difference between you and the people you put away was that badge. Now, you're just another cheap hood. A garden variety mech . . ."  
  
Savalas jumped in and swung another vicious backhand at Gary's face. Which was just what his prisoner was hoping for. The moment the ex-cop was in close enough, Gary swung the bowling pin with all his might, smashing it against Savalas head. Eyes rolled up, the former detective fell over on top of Gary, tipping his chair over and sending them both to the floor.  
  
Gary found himself pinned to the floor, his left arm trapped under the wheelchair, his legs under the ex-cop's body. Cautiously, he reached down, checking the pulse point under Savalas jaw. Finding one, he sagged back with relief. He'd been half afraid he had killed the son of a . . . Reaching down, he began going through Savalas pockets. Armstrong had said he'd taken the keys from one of his guards. Hopefully, he would still have one.   
  
Gary quickly searched all the pockets he could reach. No luck. With considerable effort, he rolled the inert form off his legs, and tried again. Where could he have hidden it? Gary's hand was growing numb from a lack of circulation. He had to get that cuff off, or risk losing his hand! There! He quickly dug the tiny key out of Savalas front pants pocket, freezing momentarily when the ex-cop gave out a low groan. Now! He had to get free now! In his haste, he fumbled several times getting the key into the lock. Finally, he had it open! Wincing, he cradled his throbbing hand close to his chest as every nerve in it screamed. God! It felt like he'd set fire to it!   
  
Looking around, he tried to plan his next move. He had to get help somehow, before Savalas woke up. Gary looked at his swollen and painfully inflamed left hand. The flesh around his wrist was torn and bleeding where the metal cuff had cut in deeper as a result of his fall. Getting back in the chair would be painful and difficult, but necessary.   
  
It took a couple of tries, but Gary finally managed to set his chair upright. Getting into it was another matter. His injured wrist refused to hold his weight. Could it be broken? It hurt so bad, it was hard to tell.   
  
It was no use, Gary decided after several vain attempts. He just could not get the balance and leverage he needed with only one hand. Leaning against the chair seat, frustrated and exhausted, he lay his head on his good arm while he caught his breath. Damn! He could've crawled to the phone by now! And, why hadn't someone been up to check on him by this time? They had practically been in his back pocket all day! What did they do? Join the party?   
  
Belatedly, Gary realized he had not heard so much as a moan from his tormentor for quite awhile. He raised his head to look back . . . just in time to catch the pistol barrel against his right temple! Gary's head hit the floor with a 'thud'! Dazed, ears ringing from the double impact, he was only distantly aware of a tugging on his left arm, and the sound of metal clinking. Pain enveloped his arm as the cuff was once again clamped tightly around his wrist, the cruel metal digging into his already torn flesh.   
  
"You should've hit harder, Hobson," Savalas taunted him, waving the gun under his nose. "And you should've taken this," he added, jabbing Gary painfully in the chest with the barrel. "Now, I'll just have to teach you some manners." He straightened up, slamming the gun-handle down on Gary's injured wrist as he did so.   
  
Gary choked back a cry of agony as his already torn flesh was further abused. He tried to roll over and drag himself close enough to the chair to ease the strain, only to have a shod foot catch him in the stomach. This time, he lost the rebellion.  
  
Savalas stepped back, grimacing with distaste. "Christ, Hobson," he sneered. "You're a disgrace! Now, I'll have to clean you up before we can continue."  
  
"Why?" Gary rasped weakly. "P-plenty more . . .where that came from."  
  
"The smell, Hobson," the ex-cop replied, wrinkling his nose. "It's disgusting. What have you been eating?"  
  
Savalas went to the bathroom and soon returned with a plastic wastebasket full of water, which he tossed all over his prisoner. He then grabbed the large bath towel Gary had been using and dried most of it off the floor, leaving the younger man soaked and shivering on the bare wood.   
  
"Much better," he observed with a nod. "Never could stand the smell of vomit. Now, what to do with you?" He reached out and gave the cuffs a shake, eliciting a pained grunt from his victim. "I suppose I could start breaking bones," he mused. "But that's too much work. I found this lovely set of knives in the kitchen." He waved one under Gary's right eye, drawing the point gently down his cheek. "Umph! Too much blood. Oh, wait. What if I heat them up, first?" He grabbed Gary's battered jaw and forced his head around to meet his fervid gaze. "How does that sound, kid? Red-hot knives that cauterize as they cut? Lots of pain, loads of it! But, so little blood loss! I could keep you going for hours!"  
  
Gary returned Savalas amused gaze with a defiant glare of his own. "You can go to Hell, you crazy son of a . . ."  
  
Savalas slammed him across the mouth with the back of his hand. In his fury, he dropped the knife, as he grabbed a handful of Gary's hair and yanked his head back painfully. "You better keep a civil tongue in your mouth when you speak to me!" he snarled. "I can make the next few hours of your life a living hell!"  
  
To Savalas astonishment, Gary lay his head back and laughed! A small chuckle, at first, which quickly built to a full guffaw. Helplessly, he wiped at the tears that streamed down his face, all the while shifting so that the knife ended up within easy reach.   
  
"God, that's . . . Where do you get you're material, Savalas? Old B-movies?" he chuckled. "That line is so . . . so . . ."  
  
"Stale? Hmm, what the hell," Savalas shrugged. "All the good lines were taken a long time ago." He put the gun under Gary's chin, a little unnerved by the wry smile on his victim's face. "I guess I'll just have to shoot you."  
  
Gary's smile vanished as he snapped, "Shoot this!" His right hand slashed downwards with the knife Savalas had dropped, stabbing it deeply into his gun-hand. With a cry of pain louder than any he had forced out of Gary, Savalas dropped the pistol. Gary lunged for the fallen weapon, trying to knock it under the bed. Savalas beat him to it by a hair's breadth. Two hands clamped around the gun, one in anger, the other in desperation. Gary tried to keep Savalas from lifting the weapon, his superior upper body strength seeming to give him a clear advantage. But, he had been weakened by the beating he had received and a blow from Savalas injured hand was enough to rock him onto his back. Grimly, he hung onto the gun as the former detective slammed blow after blow to his ribs. In a desperate move, Gary yanked with his cuffed wrist, toppling the wheelchair onto his opponent. The armrest caught Savalas just behind the ear, causing him to crumple on top of Gary. Still he hung onto his grip.  
  
White-hot pain seared Gary's right shoulder in time with a muffled report! He'd been shot! Grimly, he tightened his grip, hanging on with determined, but fading strength. He would not let go!   
  
Sensing victory, Savalas smiled. "You'll have to . . . pay double . . . for this," he grated out between clinched teeth. "That pretty . . .partner of yours? I'll have to, unh! pay her a visit. Have some . . .real fun!" He slammed a knee into Gary's stomach, eliciting a grunt from his opponent.   
  
"Y-you've gotta, ah! get outta . . . here . . . first!" Gary replied, his jaw clenched with determination. It had to end here!   
  
A brutal blow with Savalas' injured fist left a smear of blood on Gary's left cheek. Head rocking back with the impact from the blow, Gary almost lost his grip on the weapon.  
  
"Oh, not to . . .worry!" the killer relied. "I'll save her . . .for last! Right after . . .my old . . .partner . . .unh! and the lovely Ms . . . Brigatti!" He wedged his right arm under Gary's chin and started bearing down on his windpipe. "But, first, we start with Mommy and Daddy!" he hissed.  
  
Gary's vision began to blur as his air supply was cut off. Grimly he tightened his hold on the gun, felt his hand slip . . . felt Savalas jerk as the gun lurched once more. Face to face, he could not miss seeing the fugitive's eyes as, first they widened in shock, then glazed over, could feel Savalas' muscles go slack. Horrified, he saw a trickle of blood crawl from the corner of his opponent's mouth. Felt wetness spread across his bare skin from the wound in Savalas chest.   
  
"Th-that . . . wasn't . . ." Whatever else Savalas was going to say was lost as he slumped over onto his intended victim. Sightless eyes stared unblinkingly into Gary's face as his own widened in shock.  
  
"No!" he whispered. "No! Don't do this!" he cried, his voice rising. "Don't you die on me, you son of a . . . ! Help! We need help in here!" He tried pushing his assailant's inert form away, but found he was unable to use his right arm. And his left was still cuffed to the fallen chair! Trapped, he looked toward the phone sitting on its table on the other side of his bed. Less than twenty feet away, and as unreachable as the far side of Pluto. Panting with exertion, he tried again to dislodge Savalas motionless body, yanking viciously on the cuff in his frustration. The only reward for his efforts was a strangled moan from the unconscious man. "Don't you die on me," he pleaded. "Please, God! Don't let 'im die. I didn't mean . . . Please!"  
  
He could hear Savalas labored breathing, feel the rhythm of his heart beating in counterpoint to his own. Felt it speed up as it had less and less blood to force through collapsing arteries. Felt it stutter . . . and, ultimately, stop. A long, rattling sigh escaped Savalas lips as his last breath fled his body, along with his malevolent life force.  
  
"No-oo-oo!" Gary moaned, a long drawn out sound low in his throat. "Please! God, no!" he pleaded. To no avail. "Help me," he whispered. "Please. God. Somebody. Help me?"  
  
****************  
  
"You can't keep us here against our will!" Lois Hobson insisted. She was standing toe-to-toe, and nose-to-nose with Antonia Brigatti. "My son is in trouble and I am going to him! Now, I can either go past you or through you. Take your pick."  
  
Toni Brigatti stood in front of the door, hands firmly planted on her hips. She was beginning to see where Hobson got his fire. His mother had awakened from a sound sleep more than an hour ago, demanding to return home. In no time, her husband and the Fishmans were joining in.   
  
"Your son is fine, Mrs. Hobson," Toni said, trying to control the situation. "He's got four armed guards looking after him. I'm sure they've got your baby safely tucked in bed by now."  
  
Further infuriated by the tiny cop's snide tone, Lois grabbed the front of her blouse with both hands, pulling her even closer.   
  
"If my 'baby' dies because of your interference," she hissed, "you will never know a moment's peace for the rest of your life! I will make it my sacred mission in life to make you wish it was a 'living hell'! Now, move!"  
  
Bernie Hobson stepped to his wife's side. "She was right before," he reminded the detective in a deceptively mild tone. "Now, please move."  
  
"If you let Gary die because of some stupid argument," Chuck chimed in, "you'll deserve to be miserable the rest of your life!"  
  
"You don't understand," Brigatti sighed. "Savalas is still out there, and he's dangerous. He'll go after any or all of you to get to Gary!" She pried Lois's hands from her blouse. "I'll give him a call, let you talk with him, okay?" Stepping back, she pulled out her cellphone. Dialing quickly, she waited impatiently for a response. The whole damned family was crazy, she decided. It was almost three in the morning, for Christ's sake! He was probably sleeping too soundly to hear the phone. After nearly a dozen rings, however, even Brigatti had to admit something had to be wrong. "M-maybe the party ran over," she mumbled hopefully. She hit the disconnect and dialed again. "Davis? Brigatti. Let me talk to Hobson. When? Well, go check on him and call me back. I know what time it is, but his folks are threatening to make a break for it. Now, go get 'im!"   
  
She disconnected again, explaining that Gary had gone up to bed a little before one. "He's probably snoring too loud to hear the phone," she added, almost convincing herself. Toni wasn't about to admit that she was feeling just as anxious as they were. Why was it taking so long to call back?  
  
The chirruping of the cell phone startled everyone. Brigatti snapped it open before the second ring. "Brigatti here. Talk to me," she snapped. She listened intently for a few seconds, her face growing pale. "How bad?" she asked. Another long silence. She closed her eyes, waving a hand for silence as everyone began to ask what was wrong. "Where . . .? Right, we'll be there in twenty. And somebody better have an explanation." She closed the little flip phone with such a snap! it echoed around the room. "First of all," Brigatti said as she turned to face the anxious group, "Gary is alive. Savalas slipped past security somehow, and worked him over pretty good. Good news, Savalas is dead. Bad news, it looks like Gary's the one that killed him. Also, he was apparently trapped under the . . . the body for a couple of hours. He is alive!" she repeated. "He's hurt, but nothing life threatening according to the EMTs. He's on his way to Cook County as we speak. If you'll all come with me, I'll give you a lift to the hospital. Then I'm gonna find out how this happened," she added under her breath.  
  
  
*********************  
  
Lois and Bernie were the first to burst through the ER doors, making a beeline for the admissions desk. They were totally oblivious to the general air of urgency as doctors and nurses tried to deal with the aftermath of another Halloween, focusing, instead on the slender, lean-faced young doctor they were already so familiar with.  
  
"Thank God you're here," Dr. Carter said, stepping forward to meet them. "I was just trying to call. They had to take Gary to surgery to remove the bullet and repair his left wrist. He's lost a lot of blood already, and our resources are a running little low," he added laconically, looking around as a bloody 'D'Artagnian' was wheeled past them on a stretcher. "His records show that you and he are a match, Mr. Hobson. Think you could spare a pint?"  
  
"Just show me where to go," Bernie replied grimly. "How bad is it?"  
  
"As I said," Carter responded as he led the way to the blood bank, "he's lost a lot of blood, and his left wrist is a mess. We have one of the best micro-surgeons in the state scrubbing up as we speak. He believes Gary should regain full use of his hand. The bullet in his right shoulder went in at such a steep angle, it missed any thing major, which is good." He paused just outside the door. "Apparently, he was trapped under a dead body for almost two hours. When they brought him in, he . . . he was already in shock. And I don't mean just physical. When he comes to, he's going to need every ounce of support you can give him."  
  
"That's what we're here for, Doc," was Chuck's grim rejoinder.   
  
****************  
  
Soft fingers swept the hair from his forehead in a gesture so familiar, it went back to his earliest memories. Gary moaned quietly as it pulled him from his drug induced slumber. No, he wasn't ready yet! Distant voices called to him, telling him to wake up. The gentle touch on his cheek encouraged him to open his eyes. 'Please!' he begged. 'I can't! I can't . . . can't face what I've done!' He tried to bat at the hand with his right. A sharp stab of pain pierced the fog in his mind long enough to remember he had been shot.  
  
"Please!" he whispered aloud. "Go 'way. Please?"  
  
"Not until you open those eyes, sweetie," Lois Hobson crooned to her child. "Come on, Gary. We need to know you're going to be alright."  
  
"Never," Gary murmured, almost too softly to hear. "Ne'er be . . . right. Hurts. Go 'way," he sighed as he slipped once more into oblivion.  
  
*****************  
  
"Oh, dear!" Lois Hobson sat back with a sigh. "I was afraid of that." She turned to face her husband. "He's blaming himself for that animal's death," she explained tearfully. "After everything that . . . that bastard did to our son, now he's going to haunt Gary for the rest of his life!"   
  
Bernie pulled her close, holding her as she strove to control her fear and anger. Feelings he shared in spades. He wished that it had been him in the loft with Savalas, instead of Gary. While he would be just as remorseful as his son, he believed that he was better equipped to handle the emotional baggage.  
  
"He'll be okay," he told her, holding her tight. "Not at first, maybe. And he'll need all the help we can give him, but, he will get through this. He's too strong not to." He put a finger under Lois's chin, tilting her tearstained face up to meet his gaze. "He gets it from you, remember?"  
  
"It's just so unfair," Lois sniffed as she snuggled into his chest. "With everything he's been through because of the paper, all the horrible things that have been done to him because of it, then that t-terrible accident. Now this! Where does it end, Bernie? When does he get a break?"  
  
*******************  
  
Armstrong stepped aside to let the gurney pass bearing its grisly burden, watching as they navigated the stairs. He and Savalas had been partners for several years before Hobson tripped up his little murder-for-hire setup. As betrayed as he had felt that night, Paul still had not wished such an end for the renegade.   
  
He entered Hobson's loft just in time to be half-blinded by a flash of intensely bright light. The crime scene investigator apologized as he moved into position for another shot. Nodding in acknowledgement, Paul moved in for a closer look at the scene.  
  
The tape outline of Savalas' body overlay the inner edges of two large pools of blood. The gap itself formed a partial outline of another body, that of the still living man he had promised to protect.   
  
How had this been allowed to happen? Four armed, experienced cops, and the fugitive was taken out by the victim!  
  
"It never occurred to you to check on him?" he asked Officer Davis. "To, at least, see if he needed anything? Like help!"  
  
"We checked the perimeter twice after the party broke up," Davis explained. "Including the fire door in the back. There was no sign of tampering. The best we can figure is he must've slipped by the ID check somehow. And, no, it never occurred to me to make a visual check on Hobson. Any word on his condition?"  
  
"None of his injuries were critical," the big detective replied. "He'll even get to keep his hand. No thanks to us. Savalas really worked him over." He wiped a hand down his face with a sigh. "This has been a mess from day one. Savalas shouldn't have been allowed to escape, and failing that, he never should've gotten within even ten miles of Hobson."  
  
Armstrong looked at the twin pools of half-dried blood that filled most of the space between the bed and the sofa. He shuddered to think of Hobson being trapped for hours, unable to call for help. If, as his mother had always insisted, the suffering a person endured on earth was rewarded in heaven, then Gary Hobson must have a reserved seat at The All-Mighty's right hand!  
  
"As soon as CSI has everything they need," he told Davis, "get this place scrubbed down. The man's got enough nightmares. He doesn't need to come home to another one." He turned to go, adding, "And double-check that fire door. My bet is, that's how he got in."  
  
********************  
  
It was late that afternoon before Gary roused enough to be aware of anything. He could hear voices, low murmuring voices. Mom? Dad? At least one other that was familiar. Then came dull, throbbing pain. In his shoulder, his face, his left wrist, as well as a lot more areas than he cared to count. His mouth tasted like stale vomit. Oh, God! Hold that thought!  
  
His whole body seemed to clinch as he lurched up from the bed, doubling over as spasm after spasm ripped through his body! Every nerve ending on the right side of his body screamed in agony at the sudden movement! A firm, but gentle hand guided his head as his rebellious stomach once again tried to forcibly expel its contents. Unfortunately for him, it was a dry well. All he could do was ride out each pain-filled wave as it crested.   
  
When the violent bout of nausea finally ran its course, the same gentle hand helped him lay back, sweat-soaked and shaking, as exhaustion threatened to render him unconscious once more. Gary fought it, fought to stay awake. He needed to stay awake! Needed to come to grips with what had happened. With what he had done.  
  
Needed to get that God-awful taste out of his mouth!  
  
"Open wide, dear," his mom's voice entreated. Obediently, he opened his mouth, feeling a painful tug in the right side of his face, and received a spoonful of ice chips as his reward. They helped to ease the sour/bitter taste that seemed to have permeated every crack and crevice. Swallowing that first blessing, he opened up once more in hopeful anticipation. And the goddess of the frozen treasures answered his silent plea. "That's my boy," she crooned happily.  
  
Gary finally tried to pry open his eyes, only to find that the right one would open no more than halfway. The left one finally peeled back to let him see a blurry image of his mother holding out another benediction in the form of crushed ice. Which he gratefully accepted. He blinked a few times to clear his vision and noticed how tired his mother looked.   
  
"Tarred," he mumbled around his mouthful of ice. "G'home."  
  
"I know you're tired, sweetie," Lois smiled wearily. "But, I'm afraid you're stuck here for a while."  
  
Gary swallowed the tiny amount of fluid the ice provided and tried again. "N-no," he gasped. "Not me. You. Tired. N-no . . . sleep. Go . . . go home. Rest."  
  
"Not until I'm sure you're going to be alright," she assured him. "You do know that none of this was your fault? That there was no way you could've prevented what happened short of divine intervention?"  
  
Gary closed his eyes for a moment, lying to her with a slow nod. 'Let her believe that,' he thought. 'It doesn't matter. Whatever it takes to get her to go home and rest.' "I'm okay," he murmured aloud. "Jus' tired, a li'l sore." He turned his head slightly, spotting his dad. "Hey."  
  
"Hey, yourself, kiddo," the elder Hobson smiled, although he was also sporting a few fatigue lines. "You look like hell."  
  
"Sounds 'bout right," Gary whispered tiredly. "Take her home. Please? You, too. Both . . . both look tired. I'm okay. Really." 'Please, God, just get them out of here,' he silently prayed. 'I can't sort this out with them here!' He felt his own eyelids droop as his weary body made demands of its own. "Make ya deal," he offered. "You two go home . . . sleep. I'll do . . . do same here. Promise?"  
  
"Someone needs to be here, Gary," Lois argued. "What if you need something? Or you get sick again? How will you call for help?"  
  
"I'll just . . ." He started to reach out with his right hand for the call button, only to find his arm was tightly strapped to his chest. Puzzled, he looked at his dad.  
  
"You were shot, Gar," Bernie reminded him gently.  
  
Gary mouthed a silent 'Oh' as the information sank in. He tried again with his left, only to find it heavily swathed in bandages. "Wha . . . ?"  
  
"They had to repair a lot of nerve and muscle damage," Lois told him, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Those cuffs . . . He almost . . ." Tears welled in her eyes as she tried not to imagine the grim possibility. "They think you'll regain full use within just a few weeks. As soon as it's had a chance to heal."  
  
Weeks? Weeks of not being able to feed himself? Of needing help just to bathe and change his clothes? Of having someone else shave him and brush his teeth? Having to depend on others to push him around in that damned chair? The list of humiliations kept growing as his mind replayed those first few weeks after his accident, before his hands had healed and regained enough strength to offer him a measure of independence. To go back to that, now, after all he had worked so hard to accomplish . . .!   
  
"He should've finished the job," he murmured in an angry whisper as a single tear coursed down his cheek. "I should've let him kill me."  
  
"Gary!" Lois exclaimed, springing to her feet. "Don't even think that!"  
  
"Why not?" he groaned miserably. "What use am I now, like this? The paper sure doesn't need me. You two can handle that just fine. The bar? Marissa's been doing most of the work there for more than a year. So what does it matter? What good am I?" Angry and dispirited, he turned his head so he would not have to see his pain reflected in their eyes. "Just go. Please? I can't . . . I can't talk about this. I can't . . . just go."  
  
He resolutely kept his head turned, ignoring their entreaties, until he heard them leave. Alone at last, he could let the hot, bitter tears of grief and anger find their release as his bruised and battered body shook with heartrending sobs.  
  
*******************  
  
"He's given up," Diane sighed, pacing the area in front of the doctor's desk in frustration. "I go into that room, we do the exercises, and he does his part, but . . . there's no . . . no spark. It's like he's just going through the motions. He doesn't speak, doesn't even look me in the eye." She finally plopped down in the armchair with a sigh. "I'm really afraid that Gary has reached his limit."  
  
"I'll think you'll find that Mr. Hobson has depths even he doesn't know about," Dr. Zimmerman replied. "He's had a setback. A devastating one to be sure, but not insurmountable. Just be patient. I intended to check in on him today, at any rate," he added as he rose from his seat. "I guess now is as good a time as any."  
  
"Good," the young physical therapist remarked. "Maybe you can get him to say something. Just between us, the silence is creeping me out."  
  
****************  
  
Dr. Zimmerman arrived as Lois Hobson was feeding her son his lunch. The sight was almost more than the tenderhearted physician could take. Gary just lay back against the upraised bed and let his mother shovel in each bite. The expression on his face was one of hopeless resignation, and infinite sadness. No wonder Diane was almost in tears. He put on a reasonably cheerful face and walked up to the bed.  
  
"Good morning, Gary, Lois," he greeted them. "How're you feeling this morning?" He looked at his patient as he spoke.  
  
When Gary made no effort to reply, Lois favored the kindly physician with a strained smile.  
  
"He's eating a little better," she told him. "And I think his color's improved, don't you?" She held out a spoonful of pudding, which Gary obediently opened his mouth to receive. It was like feeding a child, only neater. "He, um, he still hasn't spoken since . . . Oh, and Diane said that he's doing very well with his therapy."  
  
"That's all well and good," Zimmerman replied with a smile. "But, I need to hear it from the guest of honor. How about it, Gary? Care to say a few words?" His only response was a slight crackling sound as Gary swallowed his food and continued staring out the window at nothing. "I see. Lois, could I ask you to give us a few minutes alone? I need to give my patient a thorough going over."  
  
Her face reddening slightly as she caught the doctor's thinly veiled implication, Lois set down the pudding cup and gave Gary a quick peck on the cheek. Promising to 'be right back' she made a quick exit.  
  
For his part, Gary gave no indication he had even heard the doctor. He simply lay there as Dr. Zimmerman went through the motions of pulling on a pair of latex gloves and laying the bed back. For all the reaction he was getting, Zimmerman felt he could just as easily have been doing an autopsy. He started his exam by peeling back the bandage over the bullet wound. It had been almost a week and the wound was scarring over nicely. No sign of infection. Quickly replacing the bandage, he moved on to the left wrist. In spite of excellent work by the micro-surgeon, the wrist would be encircled by a nasty scar. The skin, as well as the muscle beneath, had been thoroughly traumatized by the metal cuff that had been clamped so tightly it had even left marks on the bone. Very gently, he probed the livid ring of healing flesh, expecting to at least hear a mumbled curse, or a hiss. Nothing. No reaction at all. Looking down into his patient's face, Zimmerman was startled to see a single tear rolling from the corner of Gary's eye.  
  
"Is that because you can feel it," he asked, "or because you can't?"  
  
"Can't," Gary whispered tonelessly, in a voice rusty from disuse. "No pain. Nothing."  
  
"Well, well," the doctor observed with a grim smile. "Four complete words. I'm impressed. Here we thought you'd been so traumatized, you'd lost cognitive function. Want to tell me why you've been giving everyone the silent treatment all week? Diane is so upset, she's thinking of turning you over to another therapist."  
  
"Sorry." For just a moment Gary's gaze flickered to meet the doctor's. In that split second, Zimmerman believed he saw true regret. Then the shutters closed once more.   
  
"Talk to me, Gary," the doctor pleaded. "Anyone with one eye and half a brain can see that you're suffering. Let us help you." No response. "Your parents said that you chased them out when you realized the extent of your injuries, and that you wouldn't have the use of your hands for awhile. Is that what has you so upset? That's only temporary. Another couple of weeks and you'll be back out there, terrorizing pedestrians again."  
  
Slowly, Gary shook his head in denial. "Not that," he rasped. "Just desserts."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"Got what I deserved," Gary replied stonily. "Life sentence. No parole."  
  
"Life . . ." Oh my God. "You believe this is some kind of . . . punishment? For what? Surviving? The man broke into your apartment, beat the living crap out of you, shot you, was threatening your life, and you feel guilty because he died by his own hand?"  
  
"Not his hand!" Gary hissed, finally looking straight at the doctor. "Mine! It was my finger on the trigger! I was holding onto the damned thing and my hand . . . slipped. I felt . . . felt it move. Then he . . . I killed him! Me. Not the law. Not divine providence. And not by his own hand. It was me. So, whatever happens," he added, looking away once more, "it's justice."  
  
All the pieces had finally fallen into place.   
  
"I can't believe you really think that," Zimmerman murmured. "Did you want to kill him?"  
  
Gary shot him a horrified look. "No!"  
  
"Did you plan to kill him?"  
  
"Of course . . . No!"  
  
"Were you the one that brought the gun into the loft?"  
  
"No," Gary responded in a subdued voice.  
  
"Then how is it your fault? You were his prisoner," the doctor reminded him. "You were the victim of a terrible, violent crime. That . . . animal was beating you senseless and torturing you. What you did was a matter of survival. You did what anyone else in your situation would've done. You fought back. God would forgive you for what happened. Why can't you forgive yourself?"  
  
"Because I'm not supposed to take life!" Gary groaned miserably. "I'm supposed to save it! I should've found another way!"  
  
Zimmerman leaned in closer, speaking earnestly. "Gary, I'm a doctor," he said. "I take the Hippocratic Oath very seriously. But, put into the same circumstances, I honestly have to say that I would've had no problem defending myself against someone as evil as this man was."  
  
"Savalas," Gary whispered.   
  
"Pardon me?"  
  
"His name was Aristotle Savalas." He turned back to meet the doctor's gaze with a sad half-smile. "I try to remember the names, you see. Have to be able to give a full account when it's my time."  
  
************************  
  
Dr. Zimmerman was pacing the floor of his office, right hand massaging the back of his neck, as he tried to put what he thought into words that would convey his concern, without unduly alarming his audience.  
  
"He's in what can best be described as a deep depression," he told Gary's parents. "This has all been a terrible, terrible blow to both his conscience and his self-confidence. Losing the use of his hands, however temporary, has reminded him just how precarious his situation is. How easily something could happen to take away the limited freedom he had just gotten used to. Add to that his feelings of guilt over that . . . Savalas' death by his hand . . . He needs something positive, some reason to have hope."  
  
"Just tell us what we need to do," Bernie told him. "Whatever it takes."  
  
"And just how 'temporary' are we talking about?" Lois asked. "With his hands, I mean?"  
  
The doctor sat down to face them as he reported his patient's physical condition.  
  
"His shoulder should be ready for therapy in another week," he told them. "The hand may take a little longer. All the torn tissue, nerves and blood vessels are healing nicely, although he'll carry a scar for the rest of his life. Still, there's no reason he can't start trying to use it within the next two weeks. Sooner, if we can find some way to motivate him."  
  
"How about a little break from this place?" Bernie suggested. "Weather's supposed to be perfect tomorrow. A gorgeous Indian summer day. Why don't I bring the van, we can fix up a picnic lunch, drive down to the lake . . . You know, just get out for a while. No offense, Doc, but he's spent more time here than he has at home. That's enough to depress anybody."  
  
"None taken," Zimmerman grinned. "You have an excellent point. Gary's been stuck inside way too much this year. For someone who's used to being outdoors most of the time, it's like being in prison."  
  
"Then it's settled," Lois said with relief. "Tomorrow, we'll drag him out of this depression by the hair of his head, if we have to."  
  
***************  
  
The next day dawned bright and beautiful. A perfect day to spend outside. Bernie and Lois arrived as planned, the van loaded for a day outdoors. For his part, Gary raised no protest when, with the help of the nurses, his parents got him into his wheelchair and loaded him into the van. In fact, he showed no reaction at all. It was just one more indignity to be endured.   
  
They drove out to Lincoln Park, finding a spot near one of the piers. Lois set out the blanket and the food as Bernie helped Gary from the van. For nearly an hour, the two elder Hobson's went through the pretense of it being just a normal family outing. Except that Gary still had to allow them to feed him, to wipe his chin and, in general to treat him as a child.  
  
Again, Gary made no objections. He knew they were only doing what they thought was right, trying to cheer him up. The problem was that everything they had to do for him only accentuated his situation. Still, Gary endured it as just another facet of his 'punishment'. He was so deeply mired in his self-made prison of guilt, that he was unable to see how he was forcing them to share his misery.  
  
Finally, Lois had to leave. A young mother was going to be distracted long enough for her toddler to be abducted while they visited the nearby zoo.  
  
"This shouldn't take long," she assured them, choosing not to see the pained look in Gary's eyes. She knew that he was feeling useless, a burden. She would not fuel that misconception. "You two use the time for a little 'male bonding'. Go watch those kids playing on the pier . . . or something. Try to keep them out of trouble."  
  
"Sure thing, sweetheart," Bernie grinned. "Don't forget to call security. Unh-unh! Don't give me that innocent look!" he added. "I know how you feel about child abuse! We want the guy caught, not castrated . . . yet."  
  
"Bernie Hobson, you spoil all my fun!" With a smile and a wave, she hastened to the van.  
  
Bernie waved back before turning to the task of packing up the leftovers. When that was done, he placed the basket in Gary's lap and rolled him towards the pier. The younger Hobson still had not said ten words since leaving the hospital. He had mostly spoken in brief, monosyllabic phrases, such as, 'yes, ma'am,' 'no, ma'am,' and 'thank you.' So Bernie did most of the talking. A job he relished. He parked the wheelchair beside a bench on the shore end of the pier, and proceeded to tell Gary all about the new RV he had his eye on. He described it in such glowing detail, that Gary began to wonder if his dad was in love. He kept on and on, calling it 'she' and 'her', referring to it as 'sweet this' or saying it had such 'gorgeous' something or other. All the time he was talking, however, he kept yawning. The huge meal and warm sunshine had ganged up on the older man, making him drowsy. His voice got lower and lower, until he was talking in little more than an inarticulate mumble. Minutes later, Gary was dismayed to hear loud, stentorian noises coming from his soundly sleeping father.   
  
'This is going too far!' he thought to himself. 'There are some punishments no one should have to bear!'  
  
"Dad." No answer. "Dad!" Still no response. The man was snoring so loud, he was probably creating a radar blip! "Aw, Christ, Dad," he pleaded. "Give me a break!" That nice quiet hospital room was starting to look so good! "I'm sorry! Just wake up, please! I promise to be good!"  
  
His chair gave a sudden lurch as something struck it from behind. Startled, Gary looked behind him to see several teenage boys on roller-blades and skateboards circling another boy sprawled on the planking, laughing. Apparently, his dad had neglected to set the brake, because his chair rolled several feet before slowing to a halt. As he watched, another boy came barreling at him. Gary quickly faced forward just as a second jolt sent him forward once more. They were playing with him!   
  
"Quit it!" he told the boys. He tried to engage the brake, but could not get enough purchase with his bandaged hand. The boys laughed as he was struck again. Each impact sent him closer to the end of the pier. "This isn't funny!" he yelled. "Stop it! Please!"  
  
"What's the matter, dude?" one of the boys on roller-blades asked. "Afraid of a little water?" Laughing, he bumped the chair once more.  
  
The kids ignored his pleas and continued to bump the chair with each pass. Gary's alarm grew with each impact. If they kept this up, he'd end up in the water for sure! In desperation, he tried to throw himself to one side, attempting to overturn the chair. Another bump sent him to within just a few feet of the end. One more and he was sunk, literally! He quickly threw himself to one side, then the other, rocking the chair so violently that he finally succeeded in tipping the chair. "Thank God!" he sighed in relief.   
  
His relief was short lived as the youths continued to circle him. Gary was reminded of a nature show where a pack of young wolves had stalked an injured elk. Nervously, he tried to keep an eye on the young man who had spoken. He seemed to be the leader.  
  
"What do you want?" he asked. "I don't have any money."  
  
"We ain't after your money, dude," the boy snickered. "We're just havin' a little fun."  
  
"Cute," Gary remarked. "Very funny. Ha ha. Now, could you please leave me alone?"  
  
"Naw," another boy replied. "We wanna see how you get back in that chair, man. Must be a pain with your hands messed up like that."  
  
"Please," Gary begged them. "Just go away. I'm not that entertaining. And I don't have anything worth stealing."  
  
"He's right, dude," a third boy spoke up. "This is boring. Let's go."  
  
"Not just yet," the first boy replied. He came to a halt, his roller-blades just inches from Gary's face. Reaching down, he started to remove Gary's jacket. "I'm curious to see if he has an arm under all this."  
  
Gary swatted at the boy with his left hand, only to have another boy grab it and hold it down with his knee. Helpless, Gary watched the first boy pull a large, sharp knife.   
  
With quick, deft motions, the boy sliced through Gary's shirt, then the bandages strapping his right arm down. While his friends kept the struggling man immobilized, the youth prodded the livid scars of the entrance and exit wounds with the tip of his knife. Gary let out a pained hiss as the sharp point drew blood.  
  
"That's a bullet wound, man!" the boy exclaimed. "You a cop?"  
  
"Home invasion," Gary grunted. "Now, get off me!" He tried to swing at the boy with his now freed right hand, only to let it fall back with a pained cry as sore, torn muscles protested. "Please," he panted. "Just leave me alone." 'Please, Dad. Wake up!' he prayed. He could still hear his father sawing logs at the other end of the pier. Exhausted, he let his head fall back, his eyes closed. "What do you want?" he asked.  
  
"Nothin'," the leader replied with a wicked smile. He let go of Gary's arm and rose to his bladed feet. The boy let himself roll backwards as he motioned for his cohorts to release their prisoner. "We've already got what we wanted."   
  
"Look out!" Gary shouted as, horrified he watched the boy drift closer to the end of the pier.  
  
Too late! With a startled cry the boy disappeared over the edge. There was a loud thunk, then a splash as the boy hit the water.   
  
The other boys lost no time making their getaway. Gary called after them to help their friend, only to suddenly find himself alone on the pier. With Herculean effort, he managed to drag himself to the spot where he had seen the boy fall. Peering down, he could still see the youth. His brightly colored helmet bobbed on the surface. The colors served as a beacon to mark the spot where the boy sank beneath the water. Desperate, he cried out to his father for help, to no avail. Without stopping to think of the consequences, Gary rolled his body off the pier directly over the boy.  
  
As the freezing water closed over his head, Gary reached out to where he thought the boy should be. Groping blindly with his right hand, he felt long loose strands of hair. From there, he ran his hand down until he had a grip on the boy's arm. He pulled himself to the unconscious youth, wrapping his left arm around the young man's chest. Stroking hard with his right arm, he tried to propel them both to the surface. Lungs burning, Gary put all his dwindling strength into the effort. Lights danced before his eyes as his oxygen-starved brain threatened to shut down.  
  
His hand brushed against a piling and Gary dug into it, frantically trying to haul his burden to safety! Finally, his head broke the surface and he dragged in a huge, gulping lungful of precious air! Clinging to the pillar, all of his weight, as well as that of the boy, rested on the strength of his precarious grip. Desperately, Gary tried to keep both of their heads above the water.   
  
"Help!" he cried. "Someone help us! Please!" 'Not again,' he silently pleaded. 'Don't let someone else die because of me!'   
  
The cold water was quickly leeching the heat from his already weakened body. How much longer could he hold on? He continued to call for help, his voice, and his arm, getting weaker by the minute. 'So cold!' he thought, his vision growing dark. 'So tired.'  
  
His whole body was starting to grow numb and he could feel his hand starting to slip when he finally heard the sound of running footsteps.   
  
"Gary? Gary? Answer me, son! Where . . .?"  
  
"Here!" he gasped. "Help me! He's hurt!" A moment later, his dad's face appeared directly above him. "H-help me g-get him up," he pleaded. "C-can't . . . hold on."  
  
Bernie Hobson wasted no time shedding his jacket and shoes. Jumping feet first into the icy water, he quickly surfaced next to his son. He relieved Gary of his burden, dragging the boy through the water until he had him safely on shore. Leaving him well above the waterline, Bernie immediately returned to the water. 'Gary doesn't have much time.' he thought. 'His lips were already turning blue!' Looking back toward his son, Bernie was alarmed to see his head slipping under the surface! No! Cutting broad strokes through the frigid, polluted lake waters, he returned to the spot he had last seen Gary. Wasting no time, he dove beneath the surface, eyes seeking to pierce the murky waters. There! Was that . . .? It was! Bernie beat at the water in long, powerful strokes until he could grab the sleeve of Gary's jacket. To his horror, his son's body simply rolled as he pulled, almost slipping out of the garment. Reacting quickly, he grabbed a handful of Gary's thick, dark hair and kicked his way to the surface.  
  
As his head broke the surface, Bernie thought he heard a double splash, but he was too exhausted to take much note of his surroundings. Gary. He had to save Gary. His son, the fruit of his loins. Bernie and Lois Hobson's gift to the future. He couldn't . . . No! Where . . .?  
  
Dazed, he realized that someone had taken Gary's limp body from his grasp and someone else was dragging him through the water! An eternity later, he lay shivering on the shore as eager hands wrapped him in a heavy blanket. Looking down, Bernie recognized the blanket from their picnic.  
  
Coughing and choking, Bernie tried to clear the polluted waters from his throat and lungs. When had he swallowed so much? Gary! Where . . .?  
  
"Paul and Chuck are working on him," Lois was saying, her voice trembling. "Bernie, what happened? Who's that boy?" She pointed to the still figure that two strangers were working over.  
  
"Don't know," the elder Hobson gasped between chattering teeth. "S-some f-fool kid, m-musta f-fallen off the p-pier. G-Gary?"  
  
Armstrong was straddling Gary's prone body, pushing on his lower ribs in a rhythmic motion. Moments later, water gushed from his mouth as his lungs gave up their unnatural burden. Quickly rolling him on his back, Paul checked for a pulse. Not finding one, he began CPR.  
  
"Where's that ambulance," he grunted between compressions. "C'mon , Hobson! Breathe! Don't you dare die on me!"  
  
"Please, Gar," Chuck pleaded. "Wake up! You can't do this to me!" At Paul's signal, he began to force air into his friend's lungs. 'You got too much to live for!' he silently pleaded. 'Don't give up on me now!'  
  
By the time the ambulance arrived, the boy was awake and coughing up his share of lake water. He kept looking over at the place where the EMTs were now working on reviving the man who had saved his life. Pulling the emergency blanket closer around his shoulders, he staggered over to where Lois and Bernie were anxiously watching the same scene.   
  
"Wh-why'd he do that?" he asked them.  
  
"Do what?" Bernie mumbled in a tired monotone.  
  
"Dive in after me. After what we did," he added. "Why'd he risk his neck for me?"  
  
"Because," Lois sighed, "that's who he is. It's what he does. He could no more let you die than he could . . . could his own child. Every life matters to him. Every life."  
  
A strangled cough drew their attention as the EMTs moved aside to reveal a weakly struggling form. Lois helped her husband to his feet and they staggered over to kneel beside their son. For his part, Gary was trying to focus on his surroundings, shivering uncontrollably. "C-cold," he murmured. "D-dad?"  
  
"I'm here, Gar," Bernie rasped. His chest still hurt from his own long emersion. "Just take it easy, son."  
  
"Y'okay?" Gary mumbled.   
  
"I'm fine, son," the elder Hobson replied in a gravelly voice. "You get some rest now, okay kiddo? I'll be right here when you wake up."  
  
Closing his eyes once more, Gary nodded weakly. "S-sorry," he rasped. "Didn't mean . . . t'be s'much . . . trouble."  
  
"You're no trouble, Gary," Lois assured her son, her hand automatically going to his damp forehead. "You just seem to be in so much trouble, lately."  
  
*******************  
  
The next several days were bad for both of the Hobson men. Gary had been in the icy lake waters so long that hypothermia had seriously affected his immune system. Bernie's immersion, plus his age, had weakened him to the same level of susceptibility. In spite of a hefty regimen of antibiotics, both quickly developed pneumonia.   
  
Bernie tossed and turned as Lois tried to bathe his face with cold compresses. One minute, he felt as if he were burning up, the next he was freezing. And his lungs felt as if he were still underwater. God! He couldn't breathe! Wracking coughs tore at his body as his lungs tried to expel the fluid that flooded them.  
  
At last, the day came when, weak and light headed, he no longer felt the heaviness in his chest. His body was no longer bathed in cold sweat, or wracked by convulsive chills. Blinking rapidly, he looked over at the sleeping figure of his wife. She was curled up in an easy chair, one hand resting on his arm. As he watched, she stirred and opened her eyes.   
  
"Hi, sweetheart," Bernie croaked. "How's tricks?"  
  
Lois snapped awake, both hands now gripping her husband's arm. "Oh, thank God!" she cried, tears springing to her eyes. She put a cool hand to his clammy forehead, then caressed his cheek. "Fever's down," she commented, smiling. "How do you feel, sweetie?"  
  
"Tired, mostly," he murmured drowsily. "How's Gar?"  
  
"His fever broke yesterday," she reported glumly. "But, he's refusing any further treatment and the doctor's concerned about a relapse." Lois looked away a moment, wiping her eyes with a tissue. "He's . . . he's blaming himself for your being sick."  
  
"That's ridiculous!" Bernie snorted weakly. "If it's anybody's fault, it's mine! I shoulda woke up sooner. If not for the fur ball, I woulda still been sleepin' while they both drowned."  
  
"What do you mean?"   
  
Bernie explained how, while trying to drag some kind of response out of Gary, he had drifted off to sleep. The next thing he recalled was feeling a sharp pain in his hand and waking up to find the cat getting ready to scratch him again. That was when he heard his son's cry for help.  
  
"I tell you, Lois," he sighed, "that was the worst . . . seeing that chair tipped over like that, not seeing Gary anywhere . . . I wanted to . . ."  
  
"I know, honey," Lois hastened to assure him. "I know. I felt the same way when I saw that headline appear. I thought . . . we should have phoned in a warning about that monster at the zoo! If I'd been there, you never would've fallen asleep, those . . . those boys never would've had the chance to attack Gary and none of this would've happened!"  
  
Bernie lay back with a sigh, eyes closing as his meager supply of strength was spent. "No wonder Gar's so good at these guilt trips," he mumbled.  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Lois asked in puzzled indignation.  
  
"Look at us! Both trying to take responsibility for something that neither of us is to blame for," he told her. "Gar gets a double dose of the guilts because he's our son! No wonder he's such a mess."  
  
*********************  
  
Paul Armstrong paused before entering the hospital room. For once, he had good news. Now, if he could just get Hobson to listen to it. Steeling his nerve, the big detective pushed open the door. Lois Hobson was trying to get her son to at least take a little water through a straw. Gary just turned his head away with a tiny shake.  
  
"Hello, Mrs. Hobson."  
  
"Hi, Detective," Lois sighed, setting the cup of water aside. "If you've come to talk to Gary, good luck. He's not being very co-operative this morning." Pausing briefly, she brushed at something on her dress that only she could see. "So, how's Meredith and your little girl?"  
  
"Just fine," Paul smiled. "She took her first step yesterday."  
  
"Oh! That's wonderful!" Lois smiled. "You must be so proud!" She glanced over at her stony faced son. "That . . .that's always . . . You're probably here to talk business, so I'll leave you two alone."  
  
Lois patted Gary's bandaged hand as she rose. As she passed by the big detective, he thought he saw a suspicious glint of moisture in her eye. Gingerly, Paul took her place next to the bed. He took a moment to study the man lying there. Hobson appeared thinner and paler than the last time he had seen him. At least he was no longer flushed with fever. On the downside, Gary was once again moody and uncommunicative.  
  
"Finally got the forensics report," Paul told him. "What took so long was . . . they, um, they had to clean the . . . the blood away . . . without destroying fingerprint evidence. Your fingerprints were not found on the trigger. Do you understand me, Hobson? You did not pull the trigger."  
  
"Are you so sure?" Gary rasped, head still turned away. "What if I caused his hand to slip?"  
  
"Then it was still his finger on the trigger," Armstrong told him. "He was there to kill you, Hobson! All you did was defend yourself."  
  
"Shoulda found a better way," Gary murmured with a slow shake of his head. "I shouldn't . . . shouldn't 've killed him."  
  
"What do I have to say to get through that thick skull of yours, Hobson?" Paul sighed, leaning back in the chair. "It was an accident! You did not intend to kill him. You did not pull the damned trigger! If anyone is to blame, it's us. We never should've let him get near you. We were supposed to be protecting you!"  
  
"No," Gary sighed. "You warned me, offered to hide me somewhere safer, and I refused. You tried. I failed."  
  
With a weary sigh, Armstrong pushed himself to his feet. There was nothing more he could say. If Hobson was determined to wallow in a sea of guilt, then his hands were tied. 'Maybe the doctor knows someone that can talk some sense into his head,' he mused, as he left Gary to suffer in his self-imposed silence.  
  
*********************  
  
Polly Gannon strode purposefully down the corridor, a look on her face that would have done justice to a storm cloud. Dr. Zimmerman and Diane had just been telling her of the difficulty they were having with Gary. How his feelings of guilt were compelling him to refuse treatment. The stocky tech was known to have struck up an easygoing friendship with the troubled man, and they wondered if she might be able to get through where professionalism had failed. Polly had promised to try.  
  
Oh, boy! Was she gonna try! She burst into the room like a clap of thunder.  
  
"If you don't beat all I've ever seen!" she snapped.  
  
Gary looked up at the indignant woman, a startled, hurt expression on his face. "It's nice to see you, too, Polly," he mumbled.  
  
"Don't give me 'nice' you back-slidin' slacker!" Polly growled, bending down until she was only inches from his stunned face. "What do you mean by refusin' treatment? Do you want to be sick? Are you actually tryin' to die?"  
  
"N-no, but . . ."  
  
"Don't you 'but' me either, mister. Then you must be tryin' for 'King of the Pity Pot!'" she snorted as she backed off . . . a little. "Wallowin' in it like a hog in slop. Well, it's time to you were dethroned! You spend way too much time takin' on blame that ain't your'n and too little time tryin' to deal with it!" Her face softened as she took in the pained look on his face. "Talk to us, Gary. Talk to someone about what's goin' on in that fool head of your'n. I don't pretend to understand what's happened to make your life so miserable, and nobody ever will if you won't let us. A life was taken and a life was saved. And your daddy got sick because he couldn't just sit back and watch you die. He's your daddy! What did you expect him to do? What if it was the other way around? What if it was your son goin' under that water? Can you lay there and tell me you wouldn't risk everything to save him?"  
  
"Can't tell you anything," Gary replied in a low, raspy voice. "You won't let me talk."  
  
"Sure I will," Polly promised him. "Just as soon as you start talkin' sense. Now, tell me how I can help you," she added, pulling up a chair. "You might as well, you know. I've got the night off, so I have plenty of time."  
  
In spite of his dark mood, Gary found himself trying to suppress a grin at her earnest expression. Polly had a reputation as a 'mother hen' to most of the people who knew her. She had no husband or children, and very few friends outside of work. Yet, she was one of the friendliest people he knew. Haltingly, at first, then with growing confidence as she sat there without comment, he began telling her everything. The terror he had felt when Savalas dragged him from his tub, the shame of finding himself exposed and trembling under the fugitive's amused stare. How he had been humiliated beyond words to have the ex-cop watching as he struggled back into his chair. The way he had been made to feel so helpless and alone. How his hopes had soared when he had gotten the better of Savalas, only to have them come crashing back down when he woke up before Gary could get help. Finally, the sickening horror as he realized what he had done . . . that he had killed a man.  
  
"And . . . and I couldn't even get to my hands to . . . to wash the blood off," he stammered. "So much . . . so much blood, Polly. It was everywhere. And . . . and then they tell me . . . tell me that . . . that they'll have to . . . I'm a grown man, Polly! I should be able to take care of myself! To be reduced to that . . . again! I just couldn't handle it! Then, when I saw what I was doing to Mom and Dad . . . what they were going through . . . I felt even worse. Every . . . everything else happened so fast."  
  
"And you got to feelin' guilty all over again when you found out your daddy was sick, too," Polly finished.   
  
"Th-that pretty much sums it up," Gary agreed.  
  
Polly leaned forward, fixing him with a direct, piercing gaze. "I want you to run what you just told me through your mind," she told him. "Go back as far as you want. Then, you tell me what you did to start any of this. Just one thing you did that in any way justifies this load of crap you've buried yourself in."  
  
"I pulled the trigger," was his immediate reply.  
  
"Wrong," Polly told him with a shake of her head. "If you'd taken the time to listen to that Armstrong fella when he was here yesterday, he tried to tell ya that your finger was never on the trigger. Just that Savalas character's. Try again."  
  
"That boy . . ."   
  
"Shoulda known better than to be pullin' stunts like that," the portly tech snorted. "Strike two. One more."  
  
Strike two? What was this, the World Series? Thinking back, Gary ransacked his memory for the deciding moment when it all became his fault.  
  
"Falling down . . .?"  
  
"An accident," Polly shrugged. "Happens all the time. You wouldn't believe some of the crap we have to deal with everyday because of stupider stunts than yours. Nope. Sorry, son. You're all out of excuses. Now, it's time to give up your seat on the pity-pot and get on with puttin' your life back together."  
  
After having all his arguments refuted before he could give them a clear voice, Gary felt strangely . . . deflated.   
  
"That's twice you've said that," he grumbled irritably. "Just what does that mean?"  
  
"What does what mean?"  
  
"When you called me 'King of the Pity-Pot'," he reminded her.  
  
"Oh! That. It's sorta from the days before indoor plumbing," Polly replied with another shrug. "To keep from having to go out in bad weather, folks kept a covered pot under the bed. They always emptied it the next day. My momma always usta say that some folks kept another one for when they was feelin' sorry for themselves. She called it the 'pity-pot'. Still a load of crap anyway you look at it."  
  
Gary gave her a steady look. She returned it, a tiny grin flickering at the corner of her mouth. In spite of himself, Gary could feel his own lips twitching.  
  
"Are you telling me I'm full of it?" he asked, trying to keep a straight face.  
  
"If the shoe fits, sweetie," she replied, leaning back in the chair.  
  
Gary stared back at her, but he was fighting a losing battle. It started as a tightness deep in his throat that he tried to ease with a tiny cough. At least, that was what he told himself. The pressure built until he had to 'cough' again. This one came out as more of a snort. Polly just sat there, watching him as a slow smile crept across her face. That was all it took. Gary began to chuckle, then to laugh. God! What an image!   
  
"You're a cruel woman, Polly," he told her wiping tears from his eyes with the bandages covering his hand. "And crazy as a loon."  
  
"But, you love me anyway," Polly grinned. "Feel better?"  
  
"Much."  
  
"Ready to take your medicine again?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am."  
  
"And your therapy?"  
  
"I don't know . . ."  
  
"Ga-ary!"  
  
"Yes, ma'am!"  
  
"Good!" she exclaimed, slapping both thighs as she stood to go. "Then my work here is done. I have a few other hardheads to terrorize before quittin' time," she told him. "But, I'll be droppin' in on ya come mornin' to make sure you do your part."  
  
"Quitting . . . You said you were off duty!"  
  
"No. I said I have the night off," she reminded him. "I'm pulling a double so Casey can go to a mother/daughter thing at the kindergarten. Then I'm off for the next three days."  
  
"But, you just said . . ."  
  
"And I will," she promised. "Don't even think of squirmin' out of this! You will take your medicine, and do your therapy. And you most definitely are gonna work on gettin' your life back together. No excuses!"  
  
"No excuses," Gary promised with a grin. "Do you bully all your patients like this?"  
  
"Only the ones that're strong enough to take it," Polly replied. "The ones that are worth it. Like you."  
  
*****************  
  
"I'm tellin' ya Gar, it's a great place!" Chuck was telling his friend. "They have everything! Horseback riding, nature trails, rock climbing, hot tubs, saunas, hot and cold running therapists . . ."  
  
"Chuck!"  
  
"Just kidding, sweetheart," he assured his wife. "Besides, it's only for the handicapped, the ranks of which you are stuck in for the time being," he added, speaking to Gary once more. "By the time the next opening comes up, you should be out of this place and back home. Think about it, Gar. Fresh air. Sunshine. Women."  
  
Gary propped his chin on his hand, shooting Chuck an amused look. "You do realize," he said, "that people with one track minds are often derailed. I don't know that I'd be talking like that in front of the mother of my children."  
  
"Not if he plans on having any more," was Jade's pointed reply. "Seriously, Gary. Chuck is right about how wonderful this place is. Not just the amenities," she added dryly, giving her husband a fierce look. "The scenery alone is worth the trip. And they have an excellent group of counselors. Group therapy meetings three times a week. Private sessions anytime you need them. Not to mention a fine stable of American saddle horses. Please say you'll go! It would mean so much to us!"  
  
They had been extolling the virtues of this camp to him for the last two days. Gary's parents were all for it. After a suitable period at home, of course. Meaning their home. In Hickory. Truthfully, that bothered Gary more than the camp. For all his old neighbors, not to mention old friends, to see him . . . like this! Still, he couldn't see anyway around it. He still had nightmares about the loft. What was it going to be like to actually set foot, so to speak, back in the very place where it had happened?  
  
"I'll think about it," he hedged. "When's the next opening?"  
  
"Not until after New Year's day," Jade told him. "So you'll at least have Christmas with your family. And don't forget, you promised Marissa to be her guest at that Interdenominational Conference on Christmas Eve."  
  
"Are you guys gonna plan out the rest of my life?" Gary grumbled. "I didn't have this much of a social life when I was married!"  
  
"Ah, don't be such a grouch," Chuck chided him. "You love all this attention! Everyone fussing and fawning over you. Treating you like a king. If it wasn't for all the Hell you had to go through to get it, I wouldn't mind being in your shoes, myself."  
  
"Chuck!" Jade exclaimed, shocked at his words. "You evil little man! He's your best friend!"  
  
"Just being honest, love," he shrugged. "Any excuse to get to spend more time with you."  
  
"Nice save," Gary murmured, too low for Jade to hear.  
  
Jade stared at her husband indignantly. He looked back at her, head slightly bowed, with sad, soulful eyes. She held her stern expression for another heartbeat. Then, letting out a laugh that sounded to Chuck like the clear tones of a crystal wind-chime, she threw her arms around him and gave him a toe-curling kiss!  
  
"You are so evil," she laughed.   
  
*****************  
  
The day finally came when Gary's hand was pronounced healed enough to begin therapy. The wound in his shoulder, in spite of the rough treatment it had received, had healed nicely and was almost back to full strength.   
  
The scar around his wrist had gone from totally numb to overly sensitive, prompting Gary to request some type of padded band for his watch. Otherwise, the chaffing threatened to drive him crazy. His dad was only too happy to accommodate him. Bernie, who had been pronounced cured and sent home a couple of days before, took the watch and had it fitted with a soft, wide leather strap. He even went so far as to have a moleskin lining affixed to the inner surface. Gary had to admit that it was the most comfortable band he'd ever worn. Still, he often found himself worrying at it when he was nervous or distracted.  
  
Diane and Polly ganged up on poor Gary, intensifying his therapy. Polly came by twice a day to make sure he was doing the strength and dexterity exercises that the therapist prescribed. She would engage him in conversation to take his mind off the monotony of the repetitive motions. The determined tech also helped him with some of the resistance exercises. Between her persistence and Diane's expertise, Gary was back on the parallel bars in no time.   
  
Two weeks before Christmas, Gary was released for the second time that year. The first thing he did was to return to McGinty's . . . and to the scene of his most recent round of nightmares. It was all he could do to stay there long enough to help his mother pack a couple of bags. The impressions hit him at the oddest times, in the worst places. In the bathroom, when he was packing his shaving gear and other toiletries, a fleeting glance at the tub sent chills up his spine. For just a second, he was under water once more, fighting for his next breath! Then, his mother called from the main room and the spell was broken.  
  
Coming back into the living area, he saw the bowling pin sitting on the floor at the foot of his bed. Just looking at it, he could feel the weight of it in his right hand, as he slammed it against Savalas' head. Feel the metal cuff biting deep into the flesh of his left wrist! Hear his own heart pounding with fear . . .!  
  
"Are you okay, Gary?"  
  
With a start, Gary jerked his mind back to the present. It had taken him weeks to stop having flashbacks the first time around. How much longer would it be before was able to sleep in his own bed without waking up in a cold sweat?  
  
"I'm fine, Mom," he sighed. "Just . . . trippin' down memory lane."  
  
Lois turned from where she had two of Gary's bags laid open on the bed. "Oh, dear," she sighed. "I should've thought of that. Bad?"  
  
"Bad enough," was his muffled reply. He was rubbing his chin with his right hand. The left was beating a tattoo on the arm of his chair. "I, um, I don't know if I have anyplace left wh-where the flashbacks don't kick in. N-not . . . not all the time. Just . . . just often enough . . . You know?"  
  
Laying aside the shirt she had been folding, Lois Hobson turned and placed a comforting hand on her son's shoulder. "It'll pass," she promised him. "You just need a little time . . . and distance. This camp idea of Chuck's . . . he could be on to something."  
  
Gary looked up into his mother's concerned gaze. "What is this, a conspiracy? 'Let's send poor little Gary off to camp. We'll make him have fun if it's the last thing we do?' Mom! Please!" he added, looking away.  
  
"Oh, 'please' yourself, Gary," Lois snorted. "That wouldn't be a conspiracy. More like . . . oh, 'Mission Impossible', maybe?"  
  
Shooting his mother a sour look, Gary propelled his chair to the kitchenette. It was still one of the few places that were 'safe'. There, he rummaged around in the fridge until he found a couple of sodas. Handing one to his mom, he quickly drained the other. It did little to ease the dry, bitter taste of his fears. McGinty's was more than his business. It was his home! What would he do if he could no longer live in the one place that he was truly able to call his own?  
  
"The paper!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Who's gonna handle the paper while I'm . . . while I'm away?"  
  
"Marion Crumb," was Lois surprising reply. At Gary's shocked look, she quickly continued. "He does not know about the paper! But, I did tell him that you sometimes have these . . . flashes . . . and that it usually means someone is in danger. He's promised to keep an open mind about it. Then, after we get you settled at that camp, your dad and I can come back here and . . . well . . ."  
  
"I haven't agreed to that camp, yet," Gary reminded her. "I just . . . I don't know that I can . . . It's tough enough talking to you and Dad about anything, let alone a bunch of strangers! To try to work out something like this . . .! I dunno. It's just too . . . personal," he finished in a low mumble, his head bowed until his chin touched his chest.  
  
Lois knelt down and put an arm around her son's shoulders. "That's why this is so perfect," she told him. "They are strangers! Once you come home, you'll probably never see any of those people again. And you'll have had the chance to get all the things that are bothering you out into the open. Then you can take a good look at them and put them into perspective. It'll be good for you, sweetie. I promise."  
  
Chin still resting on his chest, Gary looked up at her from the corner of his eye. The look he gave her was the most vulnerable she had ever seen on a man. "Cross your heart?" he asked plaintively.   
  
"Cross my heart," she promised, giving him a quick peck on the forehead. "Now, let's finish packing. We have to get out of here before your Dad decides to build more than a ramp."  
  
***************  
  
The trip down the stairs didn't have anywhere near the impact it once had. Gary could take it with little more than a shiver up his spine. His mother, however, had no such problem, as she used the lift to send the bags down ahead of her.  
  
Gary was balancing the heaviest bag on his lap as he rolled toward the back of the office, almost running into Marissa, who was coming through from the other direction.   
  
"Oh! I'm glad I caught you!" his partner said. "You need to sign those renewal forms or we'll lose our liquor license," she reminded him. "And, if you could go over some of these orders, I'd really appreciate it. Also . . . "  
  
"I get the picture," Gary sighed, setting the suitcase on the floor. He looked up at his mom, who was coming up from behind him with the other bag. "Can you handle this, Mom? I've got some paperwork to catch up on before we leave,"  
  
Looking at the bottom of the bag he was holding, she asked, "That's the one with the wheels, right? No problem, sweetie. I have to go back up, anyway. We forgot to bring you a heavy coat. Oh, and I have to go pick up a few things for your dad. I should be back by the time you finish." Grabbing the handle of the bag, she hurried around her son and out the door.  
  
"And I have to go over tonight's menu with Jake," Marissa sighed, turning back toward the kitchen. "He wants to add some God-awful Arabian dish he 'discovered' to the menu. I made the mistake of trying a sample. Whew!" She made fanning motions in front of her mouth. "It's hot enough to qualify as a health hazard!" Smiling, she disappeared through the door.  
  
"That's right," Gary called out to the empty room. "Abandon me to a mountain of paperwork! Just remember where you left me!" With a grin, he turned back to the office.  
  
Half an hour later, Gary was wishing they had moved a little faster. He had gone through two large stacks of forms, and was just starting on the third when there came a hesitant knock on the door. "C'mon in," he called out wearily, not bothering to look up. He heard the door open and close, light footsteps, and the telltale squeak of someone settling into the chair on the other side of the desk. "Be right with you," he mumbled.  
  
"That's okay," a familiar voice said. "I've got lots of time."  
  
Gary froze, his pen halfway through another signature. 'It can't be,' he thought. 'Not now! Not like this!' Slowly, he raised his head to see bright blue eyes peering at him from a face he had been sure he would never see again. She smiled at him in that same warm, open way that had always made his heart skip a beat, set his head to spinning. There had been a time that he would've welcomed her back in a second, without reservation or explanation. Now . . .  
  
"Hello, Erica," he greeted her neutrally. "Life treating you right? How's everyone in Galena?"  
  
Erica Paget's smile turned into a frown at the coolness of his tone. She had expected him to be a little hurt, even angry, after the way she had left him, but not cold! This wasn't going at all like she had hoped. Suddenly finding herself on the defensive, she looked down at her hands.  
  
"I guess I deserve that," she acknowledged him. "I, um, I suppose you'd like an explanation . . . as to why . . ."  
  
"Oh, I think you made that perfectly clear at the time," Gary replied sarcastically. "You felt I was spending too much time saving lives, and not enough on saving us! You wanted a full-time husband, a father for Henry. How is he, by the way? Did he come with you?" He craned his neck to look behind her.   
  
"He's over at his dad's," she told him. "We're . . . we're spending Christmas with him. Give them a chance to get re-acquainted."  
  
"Th-that's good," Gary stammered, silently cursing himself for the show of weakness. "No one should come between a boy and his dad." He, very deliberately, turned his attention back to his paperwork. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"  
  
"Is there . . .?" Erica couldn't believe he was being so cold! "You bastard! The least you could do is hear me out! Let me tell my side!"  
  
Gary slammed down his pen, giving her a look that would melt steel. "Your note pretty much said it all," he hissed between clenched teeth. "You were okay with what I do, so long as it left plenty of time for you! And it would be just great if it worked that way! But it doesn't! And what I do is too important to just toss aside. N-no matter what the cost to me," he finished glumly, looking away.  
  
"Or to anyone close to you, apparently," Erica replied, just as heatedly. "You spend so much time running all over the damned city, into one scrape after another, that you lose sight of what's going on right under your nose! We could've had a life together! Could've given Henry the family he needs! But, no! You have to go out and play 'Batman' everyday! Or 'Superman', leaping tall buildings in a single bound! Well, 'Lois Lane' got tired of waiting for 'Clark Kent' to propose! And she moved on!"  
  
"Then what are you doing back here?" he snapped, glaring back at her. "I'm not 'Batman', 'Superman', or even 'Archie'! I'm nothing like Nick Sterling. I can't go out, save the world and sit basking in the adulation of my loyal fans! I can't even take credit for most of what I do! One life! Just one at a time is the best I can usually hope for! It's a dirty, thankless job that can't be shoved aside just because my girlfriend is feeling neglected!" He picked up his pen and pulled the next form out of the stack. "Now, if you don't mind, I have a lot of work to catch up on. You know the way out."  
  
Stung by the curt dismissal, Erica leaped up from her seat, slamming the door as she stormed out. Gary made a pretense of reading the form in front of him, but couldn't get his mind to focus. Damn her! Why now? Why, when he was at his most vulnerable, would she choose to come waltzing back into his life? Giving up, he tossed the pen down on top of the papers, leaning back in his chair. He rubbed vigorously at his temples, trying to ease the burning ache behind his eyes. 'Aspirin,' he thought. 'I need a huge aspirin! Or a double-bourbon! No, can't drink and expect Mom to let me drive. Aspirin it is, then.'  
  
Gary searched his desk for the necessary item, to no avail. Nothing. Not even an empty bottle or tin. Great! The pounding in his head was getting worse. He knew it was probably just left over tension from his recent encounter, still . . . Maybe there was some behind the bar. They usually kept some for the customers.  
  
Rolling his chair back, Gary quickly turned and propelled it around the end of the desk. A moment later he was opening the door, calling for Graham as he entered the barroom. "We have any aspirin . . . left?" The words stuck in his throat as he caught sight of the two women in front of the main bar. Erica stood there, glaring daggers at Toni Brigatti, who was returning the look in spades. At the sound of his voice, however, both women turned in Gary's direction.   
  
"Well," Toni snorted. "You certainly didn't lose any . . . time . . ." Her angry expression turned to one of uncertainty as she looked from Gary, to Erica, and back to Gary. "Am I interrupting something, here?"  
  
"No," Gary replied tersely. "She was just leaving. Weren't you, Erica?" He ignored her stunned look as he continued up to the bar. "Say 'hello' to Henry for me. About that aspirin, Graham."  
  
Erica was having a hard time getting her mouth to work properly. It kept opening and closing with no words coming out. Stunned, she eased down into the nearest chair.  
  
"Wh-what . . .?" she stammered. "I mean, when did . . .? How . . .?"  
  
"A flight of stairs," Gary told her brusquely. "Last May. I lost my balance. Any more questions? No? Good. Have a nice life, Erica." He turned to his other visitor. "Come for a few more digs, Brigatti? Get 'em while they're hot, 'cause I'll be leaving town shortly." He looked at his bartender. "The aspirin, Graham. Do we have any?"   
  
Wisely keeping his silence, Graham handed Gary the large bottle they kept behind the counter. Gary dumped out a couple into his palm and dry-swallowed them, handing the rest back to his employee. Turning to go back into his office, he was brought up short by a hand on his arm. He looked up to meet glistening blue eyes.  
  
"You didn't even give me a chance to plead my case," he told Erica in a flat, emotionless tone. "In fact, you couldn't get away fast enough. As you said, you moved on. So did I."   
  
"I'm so sorry," Erica whispered tearfully. "I didn't . . ."  
  
"I know you're sorry," he snapped. "Everyone I know is sorry! Well, I don't want your pity, and I don't need you. Now, you have a son to take care of. I have a life to get on with. Goodbye."   
  
Removing her hand, Gary continued to his office and closed the door. Rolling up to his desk once more, he intended to finish the mound of papers still left to sign but, again, found it hard to focus. Why today? Why couldn't he have a chance to start this new phase of his life on an even keel? He looked up at a hesitant knock, to see Toni Brigatti peering hopefully around the door.  
  
"What do you want?" Gary asked tiredly.  
  
Toni eased into the office and pulled up a chair before she answered. "Quite a show you put on out there," she commented cautiously.  
  
"Oh, did you like it?" Gary replied acidly. "Thought I'd take a page from your book. You know, get my licks in first, then leave?" He scribbled his name on another invoice. "Did you have anything specific you wanted to tear into me about, or are you just fishing?"  
  
Brigatti had the grace to wince as his words hit home. She had been a little rough on him the last time they were alone. Thinking back, she realized she had been more than rough. She had been brutal!   
  
"I guess I deserved that," she admitted. "Did Blondie?"  
  
"Yes," was Gary's curt reply. "Anything else?" Another paper joined the others he had attended to as he grabbed the next.  
  
"Not really," Toni shrugged, beginning to tire of this game. "Just came by to see how you were doing. Wish you a 'Merry Christmas.' Stuff like that."  
  
"I'm fine," Gary told her without looking up. "'Happy New Year' to you, too. Have a nice life." The stack to his right lost a little more height while the one on his left grew by the same margin.   
  
"Are you gonna keep this up forever, Hobson?" Brigatti finally asked. He just glanced up at her, then returned to his paperwork without speaking. "You are one hardheaded son of a . . . How does someone go from being Mr. Nice Guy to such a jerk? I'm tryin' to say something here, and I'm beginning to wonder if you're worth the effort!"  
  
"Have you forgotten so soon?" Gary muttered as he signed another form. "I'm not. So go. Have a 'Merry Christmas.' Get on with your life and I'll keep trying to get one. Goodbye."  
  
Having her own callus words thrown back at her so effectively was a new experience for Detective Toni Brigatti. Left without a defense, she rose from her chair and turned to go. As she opened the door, she looked back one more time, a scathing rejoinder on her lips. What she saw quickly changed her mind. Gary sat with his elbows on his desk and his forehead leaning against his fists. His shoulders shook as if . . . Embarrassed, Toni eased the door closed without a sound. She owed him that much dignity, at least.  
  
*******************  
  
As soon as Lois returned from her errands, Gary moved into the driver's position and practically peeled rubber in his haste to leave. The aspirin did little to alleviate his headache, and his foul mood was beginning to spill over into his driving.  
  
"G-Gary!" Lois exclaimed, as he took another turn just a hair too fast. "If we get a ticket, you're on your own! Slow down, or let me drive!"  
  
Startled, Gary glanced down at the speedometer, easing off the accelerator control as he did so. Wrecking the van was not in his holiday plans! "Sorry, Mom," he sighed. "I've just been having a bad day. Had a little visit from an old . . .'friend' . . . while you were gone."  
  
"Anybody I know?" his mother asked. "Or want to know?"  
  
"Brigatti, for one," he murmured grudgingly. "She said it was to wish me a 'Merry Christmas but, I don't know . . . Never did find out what she really came for. She got there as my first visitor was leaving. You remember Erica Paget?"  
  
"The one with that cute, red-headed boy?" Lois asked cheerfully. "Such a sweet little guy! How are they? I'm so sorry I missed him!"  
  
"You didn't," Gary replied tersely. "Erica came alone. And she left alone." He glanced down at the speedometer again, slowing once more when he noted his speed. "It was . . . tense." With a sigh, he turned onto the expressway. "M-maybe we'd better save this for later."  
  
"Whatever you say, dear," Lois sighed. This was going to be a very long trip.  
  
***************   
  
The sun was just touching the horizon as they reached the outskirts of Gary's hometown. The headstones in the local cemetery cast long, thin shadows as they drove past. For a brief moment, he was once more lying on that tiny mound, looking at his own name graven in stone. The images faded as the graveyard passed from view.  
  
Driving by the hospital recalled that tearful instant when his memory returned, his parents catching him as he fell. Not to mention one of the last clear memories he had of being able to walk . . . sorta.  
  
The darkening streets brought to mind that awkward chase to the cemetery. Had he really driven his dad's old mustang like that? Wild!  
  
It was well into the evening by the time they pulled up to the Hobson homestead. Expecting to find Bernie still up and just a few lights on, they were surprised to find several cars parked in the driveway and the house lit up like a runway beacon. Gary was forced to park on the street, which only made it more difficult to get to the ramp Bernie had installed. Especially as he had to maneuver around a big sedan parked across the entrance to the driveway. By the time he finally negotiated the yard and the ramp, his temper had grown noticeably worse.   
  
Crossing the porch in his wheelchair, Gary couldn't help but compare it to his struggle to cross the same distance on those blasted crutches! While the chair was much easier, he'd have given anything to be able to use those crutches again.  
  
Eager hands held the door open for Gary and his mom to enter. The main room of the house was filled with wall-to-wall people. Mostly old 'friends' that Gary could barely remember, as well as friends of his parents. Many, Gary felt, were probably there out of morbid curiosity. Hickory was such a small town, handicapped people, of any sort, were so rare as to be an oddity. Everyone seemed to be watching him. Even the people who weren't talking to him, or looking at him directly, appeared to be peering at him from the corner of their eye. He felt like a freak of nature, the human equivalent of a two-headed calf. At one point, he even caught a group of teenage girls casting sidelong glances his way, and giggling. When they saw him looking back, a few of them had the grace to blush, giving him a pretty good idea of the subject matter.  
  
Some of them seemed to think that one handicap automatically led to another. As he tried to navigate the crowded room, he heard whispered comments about his last visit home. About how 'oddly' he had been acting then. Some wondered how he could've known where the convicts had been hiding, and why had they chosen his room? And what about all those strange stories out of Chicago? Being accused of murder twice in less than four years! Wasn't he a suspect when that little Walker girl disappeared? What a 'coincidence' that he was the one to find her! There was even rumors of mob connections! Where there was smoke . . .   
  
Feeling hurt and, to some extent, betrayed, Gary tried to leave the area before his accusers saw him. He had grown up around these people! How could they choose to believe all the lies and ignore the retractions that had cleared his name? Turning, he almost ran over his 'old friend' Terry Bishop, who had just taken over editorship of the tiny local paper, the Hickory Gazette. He had been listening to the whispers, as well as watching the play of emotions on Gary's face with each barbed comment.  
  
"Care to tell your side of the story?" he asked neutrally.  
  
"Why?" Gary responded in a dismal tone. "So they can twist whatever I say around to make me even more of a lunatic? No thank you." He pushed his way past the newsman, trying to find some way to escape this crowd of gawkers. "I'd better leave before they find some way to blame me for the Crucifixion," he sighed.  
  
However, Gary soon found himself surrounded by well-meaning people pushing food and drink at him, asking how he felt, if he was okay. Could they get him anything? Was he comfortable? So sorry about your accident. Sorry to hear about your hand. Did you really kill . . .? Sorry. Sorry. SORRY!  
  
"Please! Just stop it!" Gary finally cried. He couldn't take it any more! "I know you're sorry," he snapped into the suddenly silent room. He pointed to the last man who had spoken to him, one of his high school teachers. "You're sorry. And you're sorry," he added, indicating his old track coach. "Everyone is sorry for me! Don't be. These two people," he said, waving his hand at his parents, "have spent a lot of time getting me to stop feeling sorry for myself! I don't . . ." He clenched his hands into fists, trying to get control of himself. In a much-subdued tone, he continued. "I don't need anything, except a little peace and quiet. Now, I appreciate you all coming over, and I apologize for sounding off like this, but I'm really . . . really tired right now and . . . and I think I'd better turn in before I say something incredibly . . . stupid. Goodnight." Pivoting his chair quickly to hide his embarrassment, Gary propelled himself into the den. There was a loud 'click' as he locked the door.  
  
Embarrassed, Lois and Bernie herded their guests out the door, apologizing for Gary's abruptness as they did so. There were a few mumbled comments of 'How rude!' and, 'That boy needs help!' Some of them, however, seemed to understand. In just a few minutes, the last visitor had gotten in his car and driven off. Bernie turned to his wife, a concerned, irritated expression on his face.  
  
"What's got his dander up?"  
  
"He's had a rough day," Lois sighed. "That old girlfriend of his, Erica, showed up. I think there was some kind of argument, but he won't talk about it. And Brigatti was just leaving as I got there. That's never good news. Then coming in to that . . . that mob . . . " She looked toward the locked door. "I'd better go see if he's okay." Stepping quickly up to the door, she raised a hand to knock. Muffled noises from inside made her pause, listening. Tears welled up in her eyes as she finally recognized the sounds for what they were. Stepping back, Lois bumped into the hovering shape of her husband. "Oh, Bernie," she whimpered, turning to bury her face in his chest. "He's crying! Gary almost never . . . Not out loud! Oh, God! I feel so helpless!"  
  
"Gary's been through a lot," Bernie reminded her, wrapping his arms around her protectively. "He's had to endure more . . . more misery these past few months than most people can even imagine in a lifetime. All we can do now, is to be there for him."  
  
*******************  
  
Gary sat in his darkened room, staring across his bed to the moonlight flooding through the curtained window. That word kept coming back to haunt him. Sorry. Everyone was feeling 'sorry' for him, and none more so than himself. All things considered, he felt like one sorry excuse for a human being. Dr. Zimmerman had told him several times that there was nothing wrong with his spine anymore. So, why couldn't he walk? Why was he unable to rise from this chair and put one foot in front of the other, like in the song from that Christmas show they kept running on TV every year? Was he not trying hard enough? Was his faith not strong enough? What? Or, as Marissa kept insisting, did he have some 'task' left to be finished before the 'block' would be removed and he could resume a normal life again?  
  
Was it possible that he had already accomplished his 'task' without being aware of it? If he just tried harder, could he eventually walk again? Or was he to be confined in this plastic and steel prison for the rest of his life? He had to know!  
  
Rolling his chair up to the bed, Gary grasped the trapeze bar, pulling himself onto the edge of the bed. Without the parallel bars, this was going to be difficult, but he had to try! He reached out with his left hand to grasp the top of the dresser. Pushing himself up, using just his arms, he balanced himself between the bed and the dresser. Now, if he could just move that left leg . . .! He slid his hand along the top of the dresser, hoping to find a better grip, only to feel it slip off the edge! With a startled cry, Gary tumbled to the floor!  
  
"Gary? Son, are you okay?" Bernie called through the door. "Answer me, son!"  
  
Stunned, the wind knocked out of him, Gary was unable to respond to his father's urgent pleas. The next thing he recalled was the rattle of a key in the lock and the door being flung open, letting in a stream of light. A second later, the whole room was illuminated as the overhead lights were switched on.   
  
"Oh my God! Gary, are you hurt?" his mom asked.  
  
"No," he grunted, trying to push himself into a sitting position. "Just . . . just a little winded. Could you help me up, please?"  
  
Bernie grasped his son by the shoulders and helped him turn onto his back. Then he and Lois each grasped an arm, letting him use them as leverage to get his back up against the chair. For just a split second, all three froze as a sense of déjà vu swept over them, like a mild electric shock. Then, the moment passed and Gary pushed himself back into his chair. Puzzled, he looked at his parents. Had they felt it, too? From their stunned expressions, he would have to say 'yes.'  
  
"That was . . . odd," Lois remarked. "It was like we've done this before, only . . . only it was, somehow, different the last time."  
  
"Yeah," Bernie agreed. "Didn't we catch him before he fell? Or did we fall with him? I couldn't sort it out."  
  
"I . . . I think we hugged," Gary told them. "I was falling, and you caught me and . . . and we all ended up . . . But, that wasn't real! Th-that was part of the hallucination I was having on the stairs! While I w-was . . . It wasn't real!"  
  
Confused and troubled, Gary turned away so that he would not have to answer the questioning looks his parents were giving him. It wasn't real! It couldn't be! If that had been . . . then the rest of it . . .! Suddenly, Gary was more afraid than he had ever been in his life!  
  
*******************  
  
It was fairly early the next morning that Lois answered the door to find a familiar uniformed figure on her porch.  
  
"Joe!" she greeted the young police chief enthusiastically. "How are you? C'mon in. We were just sitting down to breakfast. Would you like some coffee?"  
  
"That'd be great, Mrs. Hobson," Joe Frawley replied with an easy smile. "Mostly, though, I came to see how Gary was doing. I, um, I heard he let off a little steam last night."  
  
Casting a furtive glance over her shoulder, Lois stepped outside, closing the door quietly. She led Joe toward the front steps.   
  
"Please don't bring that up," she begged him. "Gary's already feeling bad enough about what he said. I don't think he slept a wink all night because of it. Between that, and all the awful nightmares he's been having lately, I don't know how much more he can take." Lois looked back toward the door. "I was sort of hoping a friendly face might help him out of this black mood."  
  
"I promise to behave," Joe assured her as he turned to go inside. "Although, since I locked him up the last time he was here, I'm not sure he'll consider me as being all that 'friendly'," he joked.  
  
They went straight through the house and into the dining room. Bernie sat on one side of the table, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. Almost directly across from him, Gary sat staring moodily at a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, his chin propped on one hand. As Joe quietly entered the room, he paused to study his old friend for a moment. Gary looked as if he had not been sleeping well for quite some time, he decided. The dark smudges under his red-rimmed eyes were accentuated by the prominent five o'clock shadow that darkened the lower half of his face.  
  
"To tell the truth, ol' pal," Joe quipped, "I've seen guys with killer hangovers that looked better than you do, right now." He continued up to the table and pulled out a chair. He spun the chair around and straddled it, resting his chin on his arms. "I'd ask how life was treating you, but that's pretty obvious. So, how are you handling it?"  
  
"Not very well," was Gary's grudging admission. He pushed his plate over. "Help yourself," he muttered. "I'm not really hungry."  
  
"S'okay," Joe pushed it back with a shake of his head. "I've already eaten. Want to talk about it?"  
  
"Not much to talk about, really," Gary shrugged, not lifting his eyes from the table. "I made a jackass of myself, is all. Nothing new. How's the family?"  
  
"Everyone's fine," Joe sighed.   
  
Bernie looked up from the paper, as this scintillating conversation seemed to be going nowhere.  
  
"Why don't you two go into the den?" he suggested. "A little privacy might help you clear the air."  
  
Gary pushed himself away from the table. "Sounds like a good idea," he mumbled. "I need to get cleaned up, anyway." He led the way back to the main room, then into his new sleeping quarters.  
  
The first thing Joe noticed was the orthopedic bed by the window. A chest of drawers had been moved down from Gary's old room, as well as a bedside table and a lamp. The adjoining bathroom had also been modified for his use.  
  
"Just have a seat," Gary told his friend, indicating a comfortable looking chair. He crossed over to the chest and began rummaging around for clean underwear. "Getting complaints about me, already?"  
  
"Not really," Joe replied evasively, taking the indicated seat. "Heard a lot about how rude you were last night. Getting a little cranky in your old age?"  
  
Shooting him a grim half-smile, Gary continued to lay out his clothes. "I had a bad day," he replied evenly. Thinking back, he added, "A very bad day. You know, the last time I came home, you were so jealous of my life. And, all things considered, I still haven't figured out why! God, Joe! You've got everything I left Hickory to find! All I've got is a bar and a cat." 'And more responsibility than you'll ever know,' he added to himself.  
  
"After those escaped cons almost killed me," Joe replied with a nod, "I began to realize that. You never did tell me how you knew where they were."  
  
"Doesn't matter," Gary shrugged. "As long as no one was hurt. So, how soon do they want me gone?"  
  
That caught Joe completely off guard! "Excuse me? How soon does who want you gone?" he asked, puzzled. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure I ticked off everyone here with my little speech last night," Gary replied. "At least everyone who wasn't already mad at me from my last visit. And since two thirds of the town council was here, I figured they'd been in to see you by now." He pulled a pair of jeans and a red flannel shirt from the closet, laying them out on the bed. "I can almost hear 'em. 'We don't need some lunatic loose in our town. Even one in a wheelchair.' Or, 'He's your friend, Joe. You go talk to him.' That would be the one's I didn't tick off." He finally looked up to meet his old friend's downcast eyes. "Tell me I'm wrong."  
  
"No," Joe sighed. "You got pretty close to the mark. Two or three want you kept under surveillance, just in case your recent ordeals have left you a little 'unhinged'. A few, though, really want to know if there's some way they can help. Oh, and Mrs. Callahan wanted me to let you know that Renee couldn't make it for Christmas, but she should be home in time for New Years. Seems she practically rules Silicon Valley these days, at least to hear her mother tell it."  
  
Gary winced at this news. He had figured that Renee would come home to visit, but had hoped to avoid seeing her. They had parted on friendly enough terms, both realizing that the attraction between them was not as strong as their mothers had hoped. Still, the sympathy factor could tip the balance for Renee. And that was not what he wanted.  
  
"I'll try to be gone by then," he sighed. "Don't get me wrong, Renee's a really sweet girl, and can kick butt with the best of them. But, she's also too . . . She's got too big of a heart for me to deal with right now. I'm still trying to sort out the mess in my own head."  
  
"Put it to her just like that," Joe said with a grin, "and she'll be your friend for life. So, what are your plans?"  
  
Gary just shrugged. "Nothing much, really," he replied evenly. "Just hang around the house, for the most part. Go back to Chicago to hear a friend sing in an interfaith choir. Come back for Christmas, then head out to Los Angeles to visit Chuck for a few days before they pack me off to some camp for the physically challenged. Or is it mentally? Probably both. I forgot to ask. Anyway, I'll try not to wear out my welcome."  
  
There was an awkward moment of silence as both men wondered what to say next. Finally, Joe stood up and sauntered over to Gary's nightstand. He picked up a framed photograph of the two of them in their football uniforms, holding a huge trophy between them.   
  
"What exactly is it, that you do in Chicago?" he asked almost casually.  
  
Gary shot him a puzzled look. "I run a bar," he reminded his friend. "McGinty's, remember? Why do you ask?"  
  
"Oh, you do a lot more than that," Joe murmured distractedly. "I've been a little . . . curious since the last time you were here, so I did some checking. You've been . . . busy."  
  
Pivoting his chair so that he was facing the young police chief directly, Gary studied his friend, looking for some clue as to what he was getting at.  
  
"Wh-what, exactly, have you been looking at?" he asked nervously.  
  
"Newspapers, police reports, things like that," Joe shrugged, setting the picture down as he turned to face Gary. "Imagine my surprise to find a sealed Secret Service file on you! And that it was cross-referenced with President Tyson and someone named . . . Marley?" Hoping to startle his old friend into some kind of revelation, Joe was nonetheless unprepared for Gary's reaction.  
  
The blood seemed to drain from Gary's face as he tightened his grip on the chair-arms until his knuckles were white. His eyes were wide open and staring, a lost, haunted look on his ashen features. For a moment, it appeared as if he had forgotten how to breathe!  
  
For Gary, it was as if a door had been flung open, releasing memories that refused to stay buried. Of 'Dobbs' asking him how he got his information. The words 'voices' and 'visions' echoed loudly through his mind. Along with that hated word 'delusional'. Images of that plastic-shrouded room on the thirteenth floor of the Randolph Building, of Marley standing in the window, taking aim. Of himself handcuffed and helpless, talking desperately, trying to buy just a little more time! He squeezed his eyes shut at the memory of a shot ringing out!  
  
Suddenly he was back in Dallas, struggling to reach an impossibly distant goal. Flash! He was begging Lucius Snow to flee before it was too late. Flash! Marley and Oswald were arguing just a few feet from his prone body as he dragged himself toward a beckoning doorway . . .  
  
Alarmed, Joe reached out a hand and grasped Gary's right shoulder, only to jump back as his friend opened his eyes with a startled gasp! Looking around with a panicked expression, Gary sat back, gasping like an Olympic sprinter at the finish line.   
  
"Wh-where did you . . . did you find that?" he asked, unable to hide a slight tremor in his voice.  
  
"Are you kidding?" Joe snorted. "You can get into anything through the internet!" He watched, concerned, as Gary got himself under control. "Was it that bad?"  
  
"Do you like getting a good night's sleep?" Gary asked in return.  
  
"Sure. Who doesn't?"  
  
"Then let's drop the subject," Gary advised him. "It makes a lousy bedtime story."  
  
"But, it's morning," Joe pointed out. "You've just gotten up."  
  
Gary looked him straight in the eye, saying, "Wanna bet?"  
  
********************  
  
Joe left while Gary was in the shower, promising to return that afternoon. When Gary finally emerged, feeling somewhat refreshed in body, if not in spirit, he found his parents talking in the living room. They were discussing plans for a Christmas party the following week.  
  
"I don't think we should invite the Wilkerson's this year," Lois was saying. "George kept making passes at those young girls and I thought Phyllis was going to kill the lot of them!"  
  
"Then we can't invite Paul and Clarice, either," Bernie told her. "They're pretty close. Play bridge every Tuesday. What about . . . Oh, there you are! Feeling better?"  
  
"Loads," Gary mumbled. He continued into the kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of coffee. It was a poor substitute for the breakfast he had passed up, but it was all he had the stomach for at this time. He was still bothered by the flashbacks which had been invoked by the mere mention of that hated name. After all this time, how could they be so strong? Shouldn't he be able to put all that behind him by now? Marley was four years in his grave, for Christ's sake! Why did that . . . sorry son of a . . . still have so much more of an effect on him than, say, Savalas, who had come in and out of his life much more recently? What kind of power had that manipulative psycho possessed that could make him such a menace even after he was dead?  
  
"Penny for your thoughts."  
  
Gary turned to see his father standing in the doorway. With a sigh, he pushed away his half-empty cup of cold coffee. How long had he been sitting there, lost in his morbid reverie?  
  
"Save your money," he murmured, propping his elbows on the table. "Besides, inflation's raised the price. It's up to a quarter, last I heard."   
  
Bernie sauntered over and refilled his own cup. Leaning against the counter, he studied his son over the rim. If possible, Gary looked even more haggard than before he'd cleaned up. What had he and Joe talked about? And why did it have such a negative effect on the younger Hobson? One thing for sure, letting him mope around the house all day wasn't going to help.  
  
"I have to run a few errands," he casually remarked. "Care to go along?"  
  
"Why not?" Gary sighed. "I can't sit around here all day, getting Mom all depressed." He looked up at his father's pained features. "You didn't think I noticed? My legs are paralyzed, Dad, not my mind. I know this is wearing you guys down, and . . . and I wish things were different. I wish I was at least handling this better. For your sake. But, it's like I've let everyone down. You, Mom, Marissa, the Paper, even the cat! Then, just when things start to even out, when I begin to think I can get on with my life, something happens to drag me right back down. It's like there's some kind of . . . of force at work to keep me off balance. And it's doing a damned good job."  
  
"Then let's see if a little fresh air won't help to bolster your defenses," Bernie suggested, setting down his cup. "I have to run to the bank and the hardware store. Plus, your mom has some library books due back today. Not to mention some old clothes she wants me to run over to the high school for their annual rummage sale."  
  
Gary gave him a hesitant smile as the list continued to grow. "The 'Honey Do' list?"   
  
"The 'Honey Do' list," Bernie acknowledged with a sigh and a nod. "I didn't really retire. Just switched bosses." He pushed himself away from the counter and headed for the door. "C'mon. We'd better get out of here before she remembers something else."  
  
***************  
  
Bernie's intentions may have been good, but their little excursion could have been equated with the maiden voyage of the Titanic.   
  
Their first stop was the bank, where Gary decided to cash a check. As soon as he entered, he knew he was in for a difficult time. The teller's windows were all situated on very tall, almost antique counters, which put them so far above Gary's head, the tellers couldn't see him. Before submitting himself to that kind of humiliation, he rolled over to the ATM, only to find that it was situated so high, that he could not see the screen. He was finally forced to ask his father for help. Gary did not hang around to renew old acquaintances.  
  
A few blocks down, at the hardware store, he had difficulty getting through the narrow, cluttered aisles. He ended up waiting in the van.  
  
At the library, too, he ended up staying outside by the van. This was because the library sat atop a steep set of stairs, with no wheelchair ramp. It was the same at the high school. A place that once held such wonderful memories for him, was now effectively inaccessible. So many places in his hometown presented the same, or similar, obstacles. The church, even the movie theater, presented difficulties, unless he wanted to sit in the very back, behind the top row.  
  
To add to his discomfort, everywhere they went he got the same pitying looks or rude stares. It brought back that familiar 'freak show' feeling from the night before. Trying to conceal his discomfort, Gary cheerfully greeted several old friends, only to have them hem, haw, and fidget until they could make a graceful exit. That, alone, was enough to break Gary's heart. Fighting back tears of pain and frustration, he asked his dad to please take him home. Once there, he headed straight for the den, saying only that he was 'tired,' and needed to lie down for a little while.  
  
"It was awful," Bernie sighed. He was sitting at the kitchen table once more, a fresh cup of coffee in his hands. "Nothing in this town is designed with the disabled in mind. Until today, I never even realized that there's not one handicapped parking place in the whole town! He couldn't even cross the street without my help because the curbs were too high! Isn't there some kind of law about that? The Equal Opportunities Act, or something?"  
  
"You mean the Americans With Disabilities Act. I don't think it's ever been an issue before, hon," Lois replied. "The Post Office is required to be handicapped accessible, but, without anyone pushing to have it done, they've been taking their time about finding a contractor. Gary's the first to ever need those kind of accommodations here."  
  
"That can't be true!" Bernie protested. "What about Seth Watkins? He's in a wheelchair, and no one treats him like a freak!"  
  
"He's eighty-three years old with a heart condition," Lois reminded him. "He never leaves his house."  
  
"Oh, yeah. And Mrs. Greenberg had both hips replaced last year," he mused. "She doesn't get out much, either. But, I bet she would if they'd make this town a little more 'disabled friendly'! Did you know there's not one Braille sign in Hickory? Not one! What if Gary decides to bring Marissa for a visit? How will she find her way around?"  
  
"Ask directions? Seriously, Bernie," Lois sighed, "these changes need to be made, but it's not going to happen overnight. I'll bring it up at the next 'Ladies Auxiliary' meeting, but don't look for anything to happen until someone else's child is put in the same situation. As terrible as that sounds, the only way people around here will understand, is when it becomes personal."  
  
"In the meantime," Bernie grumbled, "Gary's left on the outside looking in. With everyone treating him either as a freak, or as so fragile he'll break if you breathe on him too hard. I tell ya, Lois, it's enough to make a statue cry."  
  
**************************  
  
Later that afternoon, Joe showed up with his wife, Deb, who gave Gary a warm hug and asked how he was doing. Was he feeling well? How about a piece of this delicious apple pie she had just brought?  
  
"Maybe later," he told her with a guarded smile. "I was just going outside. C'mon in. How are the kids?"  
  
"Just wonderful," Deb replied enthusiastically. "They're over at my mom's right now, going over last minute additions to 'The List.' It's become a tradition," she giggled. "They give us this huge list just before Thanksgiving. Then, about a week before Christmas, they come up with another list of things that have just come on the market, hoping to get at least half of what they want."  
  
"Sounds like a couple of smart kids," Gary commented with a wry grin. "You must be really proud of them."  
  
"We are," Joe nodded. "So, how did your day go? Any problems I can help you with?"  
  
Gary just shook his head, not wanting to ruin the mood with a recitation of his troubles. "Not that much to do in a small town," he shrugged. He held up the basketball he had been carrying in his lap. "I was just going out to shoot a few hoops. See if I can't work up an appetite. You're welcome to join me," he added hopefully.  
  
Deb looked skeptical, knowing how much higher the basket had to seem from that chair, but Joe just shrugged. "Why not? If you promise to spot me a few points," he grinned. "You creamed me the last time we played. By the way, I hear you've been coaching at a youth center back home."  
  
"Well, yeah. Tell ya what I'll spot you five," Gary agreed. "And the first one to reach twelve wins."  
  
"You're on," his friend quickly accepted. "Just let me say 'Hi' to your folks and I'll be right out."  
  
Deb shot her husband an anxious look as Gary went out to warm up. Basketball? What were they thinking?  
  
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" she asked in hushed tones. "What if he figures out you're going easy on him? You don't want to upset him!"  
  
"What's upsetting him," Joe told her, "is people treating him like it's more than his body that's disabled. We're just going out there to play a friendly, honest game of one-on-one. Nothing fancy. And, on his worst day, Gary could whip the pants off of me. No way am I going easy on him!"  
  
Which was just as well, as Gary scored two three-pointers in the first five minutes. It quickly developed into a heated match. Joe soon learned that letting Gary get control of the ball was almost the same as handing him the basket. His superior upper body strength meant that he did not have to get anywhere near the basket to score, forcing Joe to extend his defensive range and really work for each point.  
  
Gary easily won the first two games. By the third, however, he was finding it harder to concentrate on scoring. He kept getting distracted by the constant flow of passersby that just had to pause at the end of his parents' drive. Most just stood there, watching for a few minutes before scurrying off with embarrassed looks when he turned their way. Others made whispered comments, just loud enough for him to catch his name now and then. Along with a few thinly veiled references to how well he played . . . for a cripple. And wasn't it just a shame . . .?  
  
It was when he overheard one girl giggling and asking another, "I wonder if he can still, you know . . .?" that his frayed temper finally reached it's limit. He slammed the ball down on the concrete drive so hard that it almost shot straight up. The ball came down to circle the rim of the basket four times before dropping in. Angered and embarrassed Gary pivoted his chair to face his 'audience'.   
  
"Whether I can 'you know' or not isn't really something I prefer to discuss in public," he told them acidly. "And if your parents had taught you any manners at all, neither would you. Now, it's feeding time at the zoo, ladies. The show's over. Have a nice day."  
  
Stunned at this uncharacteristic display, Joe watched his friend pivot around and head inside, leaving him to gather up the ball. Shooting the two startled young women a disgusted look, Joe followed him into the house. He found Gary sitting in the den, leaning forward with his head in his hands.   
  
"You okay?" he asked with concern.  
  
"Oh, yeah," was Gary's muffled response. He leaned back with a sigh, unable to meet his friend's troubled gaze. "Th-that was smart," he added, wiping suspicious traces of moisture from his face. "I imagine you'll be getting a few irate phone calls tonight. Sorry."  
  
"For what?" Joe snorted. "Beating my butt at the hoop? Nothing new there. Although, I still think I could've won that last match if you hadn't slammed that rim-shot past me."  
  
"In your dreams," Gary sniffed, a wry grin turning up the corner of his mouth. "I meant about those girls. I should know better than to lose my temper like that. You'd think I'd have gotten used to the . . . the whispered comments, the way people look at you without looking at you. Or-or how they try to avoid looking at you altogether. We grew up with most of these people, and I feel like a stranger!" Raising his eyes, he finally met Joe's troubled frown. "Last time I was here, you were the only one, outside of my folks, that was totally honest with me. You thought I was a mental case, but you came right out and said it. This time, you're the only one that's treated me like I'm still halfway human. Thank you for that."  
  
"You're welcome," Joe told him evenly. "Does that mean you'll give me a re-match? Spot me another three points?"  
  
Gary let out a choked laugh, shaking his head. "What do you want me to do? Give you the game?"  
  
*********************  
  
Gary proved to be more of a prophet than either of them had thought. Not only was Joe Frawley's phone deluged with calls, so was the Hobson's. Lois and Bernie found themselves defending their son's heated outburst to people they had not spoken more than ten words to in years. It seemed that the two girls, and their parents, had a lot of influential friends.   
  
All that evening and for the next several days, someone would call to complain about Gary's 'behavior' towards 'those two innocent girls.' He was reported to have been openly profane and accused of making lewd suggestions. Even when Joe tried to set them straight on what had really happened, the callers would try to twist it around so that it was still 'that Hobson boy's' fault.  
  
For days, Gary refused to leave the house, or to see anyone other than his parents or Joe. Which meant he spent most of each day alone in his room, as his parents had an almost constant influx of holiday 'well-wishers.' At first, he had attempted to be cordial and polite, hoping to undo some of the damage he felt responsible for, but the cold, even fearful, looks he often received soon drove him to seclusion. Which only caused more idle speculation among the townsfolk. Many of the callers suggested he seek 'professional' help. Several hinted at a possible 'breakdown' as the reason for his rude behavior. Soon they could not even sit down to a simple meal without having to listen to caller after caller leaving irate, or 'concerned,' messages on their answering machine.  
  
Finally, a few days before Christmas, he'd had enough. After about the tenth time their dinner was interrupted, Gary excused himself and went to his room. His mother followed a few minutes later to find him packing his things.   
  
"What are you doing?"   
  
Gary looked up without pausing as he continued to stuff clothes into a bag. "What does it look like, Mom?" he sighed. "I'm just a visitor, now. You and Dad still have to live here. It'll be a lot easier on everyone if I just leave."  
  
"A lot easier for us," she asked, "or for you?"  
  
"Both, I hope." he murmured as he zipped the first bag closed. "It'll be okay. I'll just drive on back to Chicago tonight, watch Marissa sing in a couple of days, and catch my flight to L.A. Christmas night. It'll go like clockwork, you'll see." He stowed his shaving gear in the second bag and zipped it shut. "It's for the best, Mom," he told her, unable to meet her tearful gaze.   
  
"No, it's not," she sniffed. "It's Christmas, Gary! Families are supposed to be together at Christmas! Not driven apart by small-minded, mealy-mouthed, spiteful, fat-heads!"  
  
Gary looked up, giving his mother a lop-sided grin. "Holding your feelings in like that isn't good for you, Mom," he joked. "Go ahead, let it rip."  
  
Her answer was to pop him on the shoulder, then gently cup his cheek with the same hand she had hit him with. "I'm serious, Gary," she told him gently. "Those girls had no business starting this mess. All you did was put them in their place. Please don't let some local, high-minded, ill-mannered snobs drive you out of your home! You belong here, with us! Not all alone in that empty apartment!"  
  
"I've been alone before, Mom," he sighed. "It won't be any different than it was right after Marcia kicked me out." He turned his head just enough to kiss the palm she had pressed against his cheek. "Really, I'll be alright. As soon as I get settled in, I'll give you a call to let you know I made it, okay?"  
  
*********************  
  
Lois and Bernie stood on the front porch and watched their only son drive off to his self-imposed isolation. As the van disappeared from sight, she turned and laid her head on her husband's shoulder.   
  
"It's not fair," Lois sniffed. "He's never done anything to harm them! Never! And they treat him like a pariah! All on the word of two bored little hussies with way too much time on their hands! They live all the way across town! What were they even doing walking by our house? And why does everyone have to take their word as gospel, when the Chief of Police was right there as a witness!"  
  
"They're afraid," Bernie mumbled as he gently rocked her from side-to-side. "Somewhere deep inside, everyone of them knows that what happened to Gary could just as easily happen to one of them. So they try to fix some kind of blame, make it some sort of divine punishment. As if Gary wasn't doing enough of that on his own."  
  
About that time, the phone rang. Even from the porch, they could hear a friend of Lois' voicing her opinion of Gary's 'unreasonable behavior.' Furious, Lois struggled free of her husband's grasp, and dashed inside, grabbing the phone before the other party could hang up.  
  
"You can tell everyone to rest easy, Millicent," she snapped. "You've all finally succeeded in driving my son out of town! And I wish you all a very 'Merry Christmas! What? No, I will not be coming to your party! Tell the rest of your pack of harpies that mine is cancelled. Good-day!"  
  
Slamming the phone down, she turned quickly, only to bump into Bernie. Heart-broken, Lois buried her face against his chest and wept angry, bitter tears.   
  
********************* 


	3. A Christmas To Remember

Four hours later, Gary was still sitting in his van, staring at the front door of McGinty's. He knew he should go inside, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. It was still too soon. Even from here, he could sense the malevolent presence of the creature who had tried to murder him, of the man whose dead body had kept him trapped for hours. Part of him knew he was being paranoid. Part of him wasn't so sure. But, he had promised to let his mom know he had arrived safely. To do that, he had to at least get as far as the barroom. Gathering his courage, Gary exited the van and let himself into the tavern.  
  
Thirty minutes later, having assured Lois that he was, indeed, safe (Yes it had been a long, lonely drive and he loved her, too.) Gary tried to figure out where he was going to sleep. He was much too tired to go looking for a hotel. Besides, all the respectable ones were probably booked up with holiday travelers. Everyone he knew would be in bed by this time, or getting ready for bed, at any rate. With a sigh of defeat, Gary made his way upstairs and, without even bothering to undress, hauled his tired body into bed. As late as it was, and as tired as he felt, even the ghost of Savalas would not be enough to keep him awake. He hoped.  
  
**************************  
  
With a strangled cry, Gary sat bolt upright in the bed. His heart pounding as if it would burst, he waited for whatever noise had awakened him to repeat itself. Or had he only imagined it? Had it been nothing more than a leftover sensory 'ghost' from his latest nightmare? Taking slow, deep breaths, he tried to slow the frantic pace of his heartbeat. Gary was afraid to close his eyes. Afraid that he would once more find himself flat on his back, unable to move, helpless to do anything to save the man who was here to kill him. Forced to lie there as the heart that beat against his chest sped up, stuttered, and stopped. Powerless to staunch the steady flow of blood that spread across his own body, pooling to either side of him. He hadn't even been able to block his ears against the horrible finality of that last, rattling breath!  
  
It was no use. There was no way he could sleep in the loft. Not yet. It had been a bad idea from the start. Throwing back the covers and grasping the trapeze bar, Gary swung himself around until he was sitting on the side of the bed. It was only 1:15 AM. Where could he possibly go at this hour?  
  
***************************  
  
"That'll be thirty bucks a night," the seedy looking night manager grumbled. "In advance. We got cable TV, but no premium channels. You want to 'entertain', that's your business. Just keep the noise down."  
  
Gary fished three twenties out of his wallet, handing them to the scruffy, weasel-faced man in exchange for a key. This wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind, but it had taken almost two hours to find this dump! And he had to get some rest! He was so tired! Every part of his body that he could still feel throbbed like a sore tooth. He had considered getting himself a stiff shot of bourbon before he left the bar, but had been afraid that it would further impair his judgment.   
  
Returning to the parking lot, Gary was accosted by an old wino, begging for 'jus' a little change.' Taking pity on the old man, Gary gave him a couple of dollars. In exchange, he got a sloppy kiss on the cheek, and a generous helping of whatever was hidden in that paper bag . . . all over his shirt front. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Gary tried to wipe off as much as he could of the fruity smelling liquor as the old man staggered on his way.   
  
Gary was still several yards from where he had parked the van when another figure loomed out of the darkness right in front of him.   
  
"Gotta match, pal?"  
  
"N-no," Gary mumbled, backing up nervously. "I don't smoke."   
  
"Then I guess we'll just have to settle for your wallet," a voice behind him chuckled.   
  
Before Gary could turn to face this new threat, there was a blinding flash of pain, then . . . darkness.  
  
***************  
  
The first thing he was aware of was the severe, throbbing pain in his head. Next, that he was lying on some type of hard, padded surface. Then came the smell. The musty-sour odors of stale sweat and vomit. As well as the stench of human waste.   
  
Gary tried to raise up, only to fall back with a strangled cry as pain lanced from the back of his head, threatening to force its way out the front! Forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths, he finally managed to push the pain far enough aside that he was able to open his eyes. The first thing he saw was the bottom of a bunk bed. Mainly just bare springs covered by a thin mattress. Presumably, he was lying on its mate. Moving nothing but his eyes, he looked around as best he could. He appeared to be in a cell of some kind. Was he in jail . . . again? What had he done this time?  
  
"H-hello?" he called hesitantly. "Hello?"  
  
Suddenly, the needs of his body made themselves known. Looking around desperately, he spotted the toilet over in the corner. So far away! And no rails! Where was his chair? Couldn't they at least have left him that?  
  
"I could use a little help. Please?" he called out hopefully. No answer. He was on his own.  
  
Carefully, Gary eased himself to the cold, concrete floor of the cell. An effort that left him sweating and shaking as he tried again to suppress the pain shooting through his head. He lay where he was for a moment, one side of his face pressed against the cool surface. It helped. A little. But the need of his body for relief became an urgent summons. Raising up and pulling himself along on his elbows, Gary managed to get to within arms reach of his goal before the pain in his head triggered a violent bout of nausea!   
  
Unable to quell his rising gorge, Gary could only wrap his arms around the agony in his head as everything let go at once! Hot tears of shame coursed down his face as wave after wave of agony tore through his head and body! 'Make it stop!' he silently pleaded. 'Dear God, please make it stop!' Dimly, through his torment, he could hear the sound of approaching footsteps and muffled voices. 'No!' he prayed fervently. 'Don't let anyone find me like this! Please!'  
  
************************  
  
Tony Brigatti was furious. Who did Armstrong think he was, sending her on an errand like this? When these backwater cops had phoned him, saying that they had pulled in a man on a public drunkenness charge, only to find that he matched an old flyer they had of an escaped fugitive, the big detective had been intrigued, at first. When they told him who they had, he'd sat back with a sigh. Hobson. Wasn't he supposed to be out of town, visiting his folks? That was when Paul had told her and Winslow to go get him and escort him home. Like they were some personal taxi service! The blonde detective was in a more jovial mood, saying Hobson was just getting into the 'spirits' of things.  
  
When they rounded the corner and heard the horrible retching noises coming from his cell, her first unkind thought was 'Serves him right!' What they saw, however, quickly turned both anger and amusement to alarm. Hobson, white-faced and still shaking from his most recent episode, was curled up on the floor in a pool of his own filth. His outstretched hand was only inches from his porcelain goal.   
  
Her anger quickly found a new target as the beefy jailer took his time about opening the cell, muttering something about having to clean up after 'lousy drunks. Can't even make it to the damned toilet.' The second the door was flung open she was by his side, feeling for a pulse. It was there, to her relief, but weak and thready. Kneeling carefully, to avoid as much of the mess around and under him as she could, she tried to lift his head out of the filth of his own vomit. Startled, she pulled her hand away, finding it covered with fresh blood. Holding her hand up so that everyone else could see, she rounded on the jailor.   
  
"I want to talk with the officer in charge," she growled. "And the arresting officers. Now! And I want an ambulance here in five minutes or less!" She looked hurriedly around. "And where's his chair?"  
  
"What chair?" the big cop asked nervously. "What you see here and his stuff out front is all he had. No wallet. No ID. Nothin'. He was so out of it, he couldn't walk. We had to carry him in here."  
  
Fighting to control her blossoming rage, Toni backed the jailor against the bars. "The man is a paraplegic," she hissed. "He can't walk. You find a man unconscious, and you don't even try to find out why?"  
  
"W-we just thought . . ."  
  
"I know what you 'just thought'!" she growled, inches from his face. "Just one more 'lousy drunk.' Well, this man needs medical attention. He needs it now! Why are you still standing here?"  
  
As the beefy cop ran faster than he had in years, Winslow knelt down to help her turn the weakly moaning man onto his back. "Didn't they even bother to check him for injuries?" the blonde detective asked grimly. "I mean, Christ! Hasn't this guy died enough times, already?"  
  
"I think he's only on number four," Brigatti grumbled. "Public drunkenness my fanny! These creeps don't even recognize a mugging when they see one! Lock up the victim and let the perps run free!" She glanced at her watch. "Three hours they let a head injury go without treatment! Just left him to sleep it off like some drunk! If he dies . . ."  
  
"He won't," Winslow assured her. "Hobson's the most stubborn man I've ever met. If anyone can survive this kind of treatment, he can."  
  
Toni looked down at the pale, unshaven features, and prayed that her partner was right. Her world would be a sorry place, indeed, without a certain sad-eyed barkeep to liven it up once in a while.  
  
****************  
  
Armstrong found Brigatti and Winslow pacing outside the door to the treatment room where the doctors were still trying to determine the extent of Hobson's injuries. Toni held the black Navy peacoat that he had been wearing at the time of his 'arrest.' In her pocket was the watch that the thieves either had not had time to grab, or had overlooked. They had also found two sets of keys, but neither his wallet, nor his chair had yet to turn up.   
  
"What kind of lowlife scum would steal a wheelchair?" Winslow was grumbling. The whole episode had angered the usually jovial cop more than anything he had ever witnessed in his entire career. Even when they had been chasing Hobson throughout the Greater Chicago area, he had held a grudging admiration for the way the hapless barkeep was always able to stay one step ahead of them. And then, for Hobson to end up saving the life of the detective who was leading the manhunt . . .! Not to mention saving Winslow's own partner! The fugitive had put aside any animosity he might have been feeling, along with all thought of his own safety and freedom . . . that was a hell of a risk to take! And it took one hell of a man to take it. Winslow had actually been glad to get that call from Brigatti, saying Hobson was one of the good guys after all.  
  
"Any word yet?" Armstrong asked as he joined them.  
  
"He came to a couple of times in the ambulance," Brigatti told him. "But only for a second or two each time. He's also had convulsions. Which isn't good. They've already done a CT scan, but the results aren't back yet. On the plus side, he doesn't have any clear fluids coming out of his nose or ears, and he does seem to know who he is." She suddenly turned and slammed her hand against the wall behind her. "I want heads, Paul! They just saw him lying in that parking lot, smelled alcohol, and assumed he was just another 'lousy drunk!' Didn't even bother to check for injuries! Said they'd been picking up a lot of guys just like him over the holidays. That's no excuse for sloppy procedure! No . . . no excuse for . . . for letting a good man . . . die!"  
  
"He's not going to die," Armstrong said, with more conviction than he felt. "If anyone can beat the odds, it's Hobson. I don't think the man knows how to die."  
  
"He should by now," Brigatti sighed. "He's had enough practice lately."  
  
******************  
  
Gary opened his eyes to a familiar sight. A narrow, youthful face topped by a shock of dark blonde hair.   
  
"Hi, Doc," he murmured drowsily. "You got a 'flag' on my file, or sump'n?"  
  
"As a matter of fact," Carter replied with a grin, "yes. You've presented us with a lot of interesting anomalies the last few times you've been in. How's the head?"  
  
"Lousy," Gary admitted with a faint grimace. "Hurts." He turned his head slightly, looking around. "H-how'd I get here?"  
  
Carter put a finger to the side of Gary's chin and tilted it so that he could shine a light into his eyes. "Both pupils equal and reactive," he told the nurse, who was taking notes behind him. "And very photosensitive," he added as Gary closed his eyes in a painful grimace. "What do you remember?"  
  
"A cell," the patient mumbled. "Getting sick. I had to . . . to go, but I couldn't get . . . get to the . . ." Gary glanced at the nurse, then quickly looked away, his pale face taking on a pinkish hue. He ran his hands shakily over the clean hospital gown. "You had to . . . to clean . . .?"  
  
"We've seen a lot worse," the nurse commented with a kind smile. "You'll need clean clothes, though."  
  
While her comment may have been meant to offer comfort, it only served to increase Gary's embarrassment. He ducked his head to avoid her gaze, running both hands over his chest. "You . . . you never . . . H-how'd I get here?"  
  
"Two friends of yours," Carter told him, "were called in because of an old 'wanted' flyer from last year." He glanced down at Gary's chart, face unreadable. "Seems like Savalas had to get in a few more good licks," he mumbled, almost to himself. "Anyway, they found you passed out in that cell, and called an ambulance."  
  
'Two friends,' Gary mused fuzzily. 'Wonder who . . .?' "How'd I get in that cell, anyway?" he asked. "What'd I do?"  
  
"We were hoping you could remember," Carter replied.   
  
"All I can remember is not being able to sleep," he sighed. "I just got in the van and drove. I don't remember planning on anything in particular, just . . . driving. The next thing I recall is finding myself in that cell. The rest you know."  
  
Carter nodded absently as another nurse handed him a note. "Well, your CT scan doesn't show any obvious brain damage, skull fractures, or bleeds," he reported cheerfully. "We'll keep you for twenty-four hour observation . . ."  
  
"N-no!" Gary stammered. "Please? I've been in here more than I've been out, if you . . . if you get my meaning. Couldn't I just get a room . . . somewhere?" Gary's face took on a puzzled, thoughtful look. "I . . . I think I've already got one," he murmured. "Somewhere. I just . . . please? Do I have to stay?"  
  
"You were unconscious for at least three hours. And you've suffered some memory loss. We can't just send you home by yourself, Gary," Carter told him. "Someone needs to wake you up every once in a while to make sure you can be woken up. They also need to keep fluids in you, help you to the bathroom, things like that." He chewed thoughtfully on the end of his pen. "Perhaps Detective Brigatti might help you out."  
  
Gary stiffened at the mention of the tiny detective's name. Was she the one who . . .? No! Please, God! Not her! After the last time they'd spoken, he was probably the last person in the world that she wanted to see, either. And, if she had been the one to find him in that cell, after he'd . . . How could he face her after she'd seen him . . . like that?   
  
"You don't have a lot of choices, Gary," Carter reminded him gently. "You're in no shape to drive. Hell, you can barely stay awake! Now, if you don't know anyone who can stay with you, I can see about hiring a nurse for a few days."  
  
"That won't be necessary," a voice spoke up from the door. Brigatti, Winslow, and Armstrong eased into the treatment room. "I'll take him home and stay with him," Brigatti elaborated. "If that's okay with you, Hobson." She tried to make it sound nonchalant, but . . .  
  
"Th-that'd be okay, I guess," Gary murmured, wincing as a new stab of pain went shooting through his head. "I-if you don't . . . don't have anything better to do." He was finding it hard to look her in the eye. Just the thought of her seeing him like that . . . !  
  
"Let me check my calendar," she replied sarcastically. "Let me see, oh yes! I have plenty of time to play nursemaid to a hardheaded trouble magnet!" She softened her tone when she saw him cringe. "Seriously, Hobson, it's no trouble. Gets me an extra day off."  
  
***************************  
  
Brigatti was having second thoughts about the wisdom of her decision by the time they arrived at her Brownstone. Gary was still having difficulty focusing and staying awake. Winslow had to help her get him into the wheelchair the hospital had loaned them and into the apartment. Her 'patient' roused long enough to make it to her bathroom, where they had to help him onto the toilet. Afterwards they helped him into her spare bed. During all of this, Hobson would not look at either of them, speaking only in mumbled monosyllables. Judging by how red his ears turned, however, he was not oblivious to what was going on.  
  
"I'll stop by when I get off-duty," the blonde detective told her as he headed out the door. "Spell you for a little while and help him get cleaned up."  
  
"Thanks," Toni sighed, running a hand through her hair in a nervous gesture. "I'd forgotten how . . . how shy he was about . . . things. This has got to be hell on earth for him, right now."  
  
"It's going to get worse," Winslow reminded her. "Dr. Carter said he's liable to get sick again. And he's not going to be able to get in and out of that chair on his own. So there's probably going to be . . . accidents. That's why they insisted on those pads for the bed and dressing him in the hospital gowns. This is going to be totally humiliating for him. He'll thank us someday. Just don't bet on it being any time soon."  
  
The truth of Winslow's predictions became painfully evident as the day wore on. Gary spent most of the morning slipping in and out of consciousness, fitfully tossing and turning his head, at times mumbling incoherently. Toni kept trying to force fluids into him, only to have everything come spewing out in violent episodes of nausea. The only way to administer the medication for the nausea was in a manner even she found distasteful, as there was no other way he could keep it inside long enough for it to take effect. One of the side effects of the medication was to make him drowsy, which often led to the accidents she had been warned of.  
  
Unfortunately, Gary was only too aware of what was happening to him and around him. She would often come in to find him with his head turned toward the wall, unable to meet her questioning looks. She began to wonder if they had really done him any favors by springing him from the hospital, after all.  
  
Winslow came that afternoon, as promised. He took over, giving Toni a couple of hours to just get out of the house and clear her head. She felt tense, frustrated that they had this perfect chance to settle their differences, only to have him as talkative as a stone. 'Perhaps,' she mused, 'I need to show him how I feel.' She came back to find Winslow in the parlor, reading a magazine.  
  
"How's he doing?" she asked quietly.  
  
"Sleeping," her partner replied. "Made it to the bathroom, this time, but it wore him out." He set the magazine aside as he rose to go. "I'll go by his place and get his shaving gear and some clean clothes in the morning. He's getting a pretty heavy five o'clock shadow. Can I bring you anything tomorrow?"  
  
Toni just shook her head. "I'm fine," she assured him. "He's really not that much trouble. It's just . . . the way he looks at you! Like he wants to curl up and die! Seriously, I think this is harder on him than it is on us."  
  
"You could be right," Winslow sighed as he slipped on his coat. "God knows, I'd hate to be in his shoes. Well, catch you later, partner."  
  
As soon as he was gone, Toni slipped quietly into the spare room to check on her patient. Gary was stirring fitfully, mumbling something too low for her to make out. Slowly, she eased down on the side of the bed, careful not to disturb him. He must have felt her presence, however, because he immediately lay still, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled toward wakefulness. A struggle he lost as he settled into a deeper sleep. Toni reached down and stroked his unshaven cheek softly, marveling at the contrast between the rough stubble and the smooth, unblemished skin. Her index finger traced the outline of his lower lip, bringing a low, soft moan, almost a whimper, from somewhere deep in his throat. She noticed how dry his lips were, and how full. Impulsively, she bent down, gently brushing her own lips against his. He mumbled something, too soft and low for her to make out, then his eyes fluttered open once more, his half-focused gaze meeting hers with a silent question.  
  
"Shh. It's okay," she whispered softly, her mouth still so close to his that she could feel the soft exhalations of his breath, the dry heat radiating from his lips. Her eyes closed as she pressed her mouth to his, meaning only to give him a gentle, chaste kiss. Only to find herself wanting more as the scent, the taste, the sheer maleness of him pushed past all her defenses. A warm flush crept through her body as she deepened the gentle kiss into a probing, heated joining.   
  
Still only half-aware of his surroundings, Gary resisted at first, unsure of where this was going. Unsure if it was real; if he should respond. His body, however, had no such doubts. His lips parted to welcome her in, encouraging the union. His hand reached up, as if of it's own accord, to cup the back of her head, holding her close. His other hand reached up to stroke her shoulder, finding smooth, bare skin. 'This isn't real,' he told himself. 'Just another dream. It'll change any second. Become a nightmare.' It felt real enough, though. Toni was no longer sitting on the edge of the bed. Somehow, without taking her lips from his, she had slid under the covers with him, her hands gently exploring the length and breadth of his firm, lean body. At that point, any resistance that Gary could still manage vanished.  
  
*************************  
  
The next morning found Toni Brigatti luxuriating in a hot, steamy shower, wishing that there were some way he could join her. The memory of last night filled her with a warmth and wonder that she had never felt before. She could count the number of men who had shared her bed on one hand, with a few fingers left over. Yet, it was as if she had never truly made love with anyone until that moment. Rinsing off the last of the lather, she wrapped a towel around her wet hair, and slipped into a large terrycloth robe. She needed to check on Gary. He was still sleeping when she woke up, although he did seem more peaceful.   
  
Gary was still sleeping when she entered the spare room, although he seemed more restive, fitful. The look of peace he had worn before was gone. He stirred slightly, murmuring softly as a puzzled frown creased his forehead. "Why, Marcia" he groaned, just loud enough for her to make out. "At least tell me that." A single tear slid from the corner of his eye as he mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'loser.'  
  
Toni was appalled. Was that why his ex-wife had left him? Because she saw him as a loser? She had heard that Gary's ex was an up-and-coming corporate attorney. A real shark, to hear some tell it. Could she have been so ruthless as to toss him out for not being just as ambitious as she was? This had to be the humblest, most compassionate man she had ever met! Was that any reason to dump him? Moved almost to tears, she sat on the edge of the bed, gently stroking his stubble covered cheek as her own biting comments came back to haunt her.  
  
Muddy green eyes fluttered open once more, a little more alert this time. Still, more than a little disoriented, he looked up at her, then at the rumpled covers on the other side of the bed. A slow flush colored his cheeks as he turned his troubled gaze back to meet her pleased expression.  
  
"Did we . . .?"  
  
"We sure did," she almost purred. "And you weren't half bad, Hobson."  
  
"I thought . . ." He looked hurriedly away, his face a study in confusion. "I thought I was dreaming," he murmured. "Kept waiting for . . . for you to shoot me, or something." 'She still might,' he thought to himself. Suddenly he turned back to meet the puzzled gaze of her deep brown eyes with a questioning look of his own. "Why?"  
  
Toni sat back in amazement. "Why?" she repeated. "Why what? Why did we make love? If you need to ask that then I'm really out of practice!"  
  
"Why now?" he elaborated. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to react to the pain that still throbbed in the back of his head. "W-we've known each other . . . almost three years now. For at least half th-that time, I've tried to . . . to get to know you better. Tried to ask you out. The closest you've let me come . . . is buying you a c-cup of coffee. You treated me l-like a nuisance, most of the time. Wh-what's changed?"  
  
"What are you talking about?" she responded, stung by his implications. "Nothings changed! I just got tired of all the games and decided to up the ante!"  
  
A tired, wan smile curled the corner of his mouth as he slowly shook his head. "Everything's changed," he told her softly. "I can't walk, Toni. M-Marcia left me because I couldn't climb the ladder of success as fast as she could. Right now, I'm so far down, I'd need a grappling hook to even reach the bottom rung. You had to bring me to your home, because I can't sleep in mine. I'm right back to square one, having to depend on someone else just to wipe . . . to do the most basic, demeaning things." He turned his face away, unable to meet the hurt and anger he could see growing in her eyes. "S-so I have to know, Toni," he asked. "I have to know if it's real. I mean, the details are . . . fuzzy at best, but you were . . . A-and I have to know . . . why now? Why not when . . . when I was . . . whole?"  
  
Speechless, Toni sprang from her seat on the bed. How dare he imply that she . . . that what they did . . . that she would ever . . .!   
  
"At least tell me what you were . . . what you were thinking when . . . when you kissed me last night," he pleaded. "Give me some idea of where . . . where I s-stand. I can't go down this road again if it's not going to lead to . . . something."  
  
"I don't know what I was thinking!" Brigatti snapped. "I must not have been thinking at all! All I remember is coming in to check on you, and seeing you lying there. You looked so . . . so . . ."  
  
"Helpless?" he suggested neutrally.  
  
"Yes! Helpless and vulnerable and . . ." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Toni knew that she had just said the wrong thing. The look on Gary's face at that moment was the most devastated she had ever seen; on anyone. A look that said, if he could simply stop his heart on command, he would already be dead. And nothing on God's green earth would bring him back.  
  
Gary very deliberately turned on his side, facing away from her. "I think . . . I think I'd better go," he mumbled, "as soon as Winslow gets here w-with my clothes."  
  
"You can't," Toni argued. "You're in no shape to drive, and besides, they still haven't found your wallet or your van."  
  
"I can get a cab," Gary told her in a flat, lifeless monotone. "Go back to McGinty's. I don't think I'll have to worry about nightmares tonight."  
  
Troubled by his tone as much as his words, Toni lowered herself to a seat on the bed once more. She tentatively reached out a hand, placing it on his bare shoulder, only to have him shrug it off. Stung by the rebuff, she tried a different tack.  
  
"I told you what I was feeling last night," she murmured softly. "Tell me what you're feeling, now."  
  
"You don't want to know," Gary mumbled. "Trust me."  
  
"We'll never get past this if we don't talk it out, Hobson," she sighed. "I'm not leaving until you tell me."  
  
At first, she thought he wasn't going to answer at all. That he was going to ignore her until she gave up and left. Then . . .   
  
"I f-feel used," he whispered huskily. "And cheap, l-like a charity case. The only reason I'm even here is because you and Winslow found me in . . . in that cell covered in my own . . . my own filth! I'm here out of pity! Then you make . . . make love to me at the lowest point in my life . . . out of com . . . compassion! How am I supposed to feel?"  
  
"You didn't have any complaints last night," Brigatti commented dryly.  
  
"I barely remember last night!" Gary moaned. "God, I thought . . . hoped that maybe . . ." He wrapped his arms around his head as an especially excruciating lance of pain threatened to tear his head apart! Biting his lip to keep from crying out, he was still unable to completely stifle a low groan of agony.  
  
Concerned, Toni grasped his shoulder, only to have him shake her off once more. "Gary, don't be an idiot!" she snapped. "Let me help you!"  
  
"You've done enough!" he gasped. "Go away!"  
  
"And just what, exactly, have I done?" Brigatti asked angrily. "I made love to you! You certainly didn't put up much resistance!"  
  
"As I said, I don't remember," he grated out between clenched teeth. "You made love to . . . to a drone. An empty husk that was . . . was flying on . . . on auto . . . God!" He curled into a close approximation of a fetal position as the top of his head tried to come off! "Please go away!" he groaned.   
  
"No!" Toni growled. "I'm going to help you whether you like it or not!" She opened up a case and pulled out a pre-loaded syringe Dr. Carter had prepared for this eventuality. With quick, precise movements, Toni swabbed a spot on his shoulder and jabbed the needle home. For several seconds it appeared as if it wasn't going to work. Finally, however, some of the tension eased from Gary's shoulders and he rolled halfway onto his back.  
  
"You did it . . . again," he murmured, as the shot worked its magic.   
  
"Did what again?" Brigatti sighed.  
  
"T-took away . . . choice. C-couldn't say 'no' . . . las' night," he told her, struggling to stay awake, "or n-now."  
  
"Are you saying you wouldn't have?" she asked warily.   
  
"N-not like that," he almost whispered. "Mu-mutual . . . consent. You, um, you t-took away my p-power to . . . to choose."  
  
"God, Hobson!" she snorted derisively. "You make it sound like . . . like . . ." Toni was suddenly very unsure of herself. If their roles had been reversed . . . If a man had seduced a semiconscious woman, he would've been guilty of . . . of . . . Oh, dear God!  
  
"C-can't . . . trus' you . . .anymore," Gary mumbled, barely conscious now. "Can't trus' . . . trus' me, either. All gone. N-nothin'. . . nothin' left. Nothin'." His last words were barely audible as Gary succumbed to the effects of the painkiller.  
  
Oh, God! What had she done? She would have been one of the first on the bandwagon to crucify any man who had taken advantage of a woman in that kind of condition. Why should the loss of dignity, the loss of control, be any less humiliating, or devastating for a man? Ever since the accident that had landed him in that damned chair, one of the things that had bothered him most had been having to let other people do things for him, and to him. Now, in the heat of a misguided passion, she had stripped him of the last facet of his life that he'd thought he still had any control over.  
  
*******************  
  
Gary stirred sluggishly as he fought his way back to consciousness. Blinking rapidly, he tried to focus on his surroundings. He was still in Brigatti's spare bed, but he had been bathed and he was wearing a clean gown. Slowly, the memory of his argument with Brigatti began to surface. So much of it was overlaid by the drugs and the pain, but he recalled saying things that were harsher than he had intended. Still, to know that he had allowed Toni to use him in that way . . . The deep sense of shame and guilt only added to his already dark mood.  
  
"How're ya feeling?"  
  
Slowly, Gary turned his head to see Winslow sitting in the only armchair in the room, reading a magazine.  
  
"Like I need to get out of here," he murmured huskily. "Did . . . did you bring my clothes?"  
  
Forehead creasing into a frown, the blonde detective laid aside his reading material. "Did you and Toni have another argument?"  
  
"You could say that," Gary sighed, rubbing at his temples. The persistent pain was never far away. "We . . . we had some words. Where is she?"  
  
"She had to run a few errands," Winslow told the injured man. "What did you argue about? Anything I can help with?"  
  
"I don't think so," Gary chuckled dryly. "I don't think there's any help for this. Could you help me get dressed, please? I'd like to be gone before she gets back."  
  
"Answer me this first. How's the head?" When Gary turned his head away without answering, the young cop shook his head with a sigh. "That's what I thought. You're still in no shape to be left alone, Hobson."  
  
"I'm in no shape to stay here, either," the patient replied grimly. "Just show me where you put my things and I'll manage on my own." He struggled to sit up, only to flop back when the motion sent a fresh shaft of agony through his skull. "G-give me a minute. I'll be . . . okay."  
  
"Tell me the one about Rapunzel," Winslow snorted. He picked up his magazine and idly rifled the pages. "Your parents called the bar several times, looking for you. They got worried when they hadn't heard from you."  
  
"What did you tell 'em?"  
  
"Nothing, yet," the detective replied. "They weren't home when I returned their call. And no one at the bar knew where you were or what'd happened. I just left my cell phone number for them to call."  
  
"They're probably on their way back to Chicago," Gary sighed. "I kinda left under . . . well, things got a little ugly back home."  
  
"How ugly?"  
  
"I didn't leave many friends behind," he replied grimly, still massaging his temples. His face was twisted in a grimace of pain.  
  
Laying aside his magazine once more, Winslow grabbed a bottle and shook out a couple of pills, holding them out to Gary.   
  
Gary just looked at them and slowly shook his head . "No more drugs," he murmured. "I . . . I can't lose control again."  
  
"Don't be stupid, Hobson," Winslow told him. "It's just a mild pain killer."   
  
"I said 'no'!" Gary snapped, slapping the detective's hand away. With a choked cry, he clutched both sides of his head as the sudden motion sent a blinding shaft of pain behind his eyes. For several minutes, all he could do was lie there and concentrate on taking one breath at a time. When he could, at last, get his lungs to work without wanting to throw-up, he gave Winslow a scathing look. "Wh-what is it . . . with you two a-and the drugs?" he stammered. "I can't . . . can't think with that stuff fogging up my mind."   
  
"Then don't think!" Winslow snapped. "Co-operate! Just what is your problem, Hobson? Does this have to do with the fight you and Brigatti had?"  
  
"Sorta," Gary mumbled. "Just . . . no more drugs. Please."  
  
With a sigh, the blonde cop returned the pills to their container and placed it back on the table. "They're here if you need 'em," he grumbled, sitting back in the chair. He picked up the periodical once more and started leafing through the pages. "I think I liked you better when you were out of it."  
  
"That's the problem," Gary mumbled inaudibly. "So did she."  
  
******************  
  
Toni finally returned from her errands a little before noon. Before going in to relieve her partner, she fixed up a light brunch of clear broth for her patient. She needed the extra time to get her thoughts in order.   
  
The feelings of guilt and anger she had experienced earlier were still strong enough to make her hesitant about facing the man she had so horribly wronged. But, it had felt so right at the time! What they had done had been one of the most pleasurable, and memorable, nights of her life. What had made it so wrong was that Gary had not exactly been a willing participant. She vividly recalled the glazed look in his eyes, the muted protests of 'No. N-not like this' as he tried to push her away. Of herself assuring him that it was 'alright', and pushing her advance. But, it hadn't been right! She had robbed him of any choice in the matter! Then, to compound her error, her crime, she had forced the medication on him. Medication he had needed, but still had the right to refuse. She had virtually treated him as a prisoner. No, worse, a slave. Forced him to comply with her wishes, not his own!  
  
Shaking off her grim thoughts, Toni finished setting up the tray and headed for Hobson's room. She got there just in time to hear her patient refusing his medication and her partner's cutting remark. Marshalling her courage, she pasted on what she hoped was a convincing smile and went in.  
  
"Well, hello," she greeted them both brightly. "Everyone getting along alright? How's our hardheaded patient?"  
  
"A surprisingly apt description," Winslow muttered. "Awake, in pain, and totally out of his mind." He stood up and took the tray from her, setting it on the top of the dresser. "Could you come with me for a minute? We need to talk."  
  
Toni glanced over at Hobson, who shot her a pleading look. He gave his head just the tiniest shake, begging her with his eyes not to say anything. "We'll be right back," she assured him.  
  
Winslow waited until they were back in the parlor before rounding on his partner and demanding an explanation.  
  
"When I got here this morning, you were almost in tears," he told her. "At first, I thought he'd tried something on you. Then I realized how ridiculous that was, under the present circumstances. Now, you come in trying to look like 'Mary Sunshine' and he's ready to drag himself down the street half-naked just to get out of here!" He stepped in close to his partner, placing both hands on her shoulders and gently forcing her to meet his troubled gaze. "I'm your partner, Toni," he reminded her in a softer tone. "And I know that you've had . . . feelings . . . for this guy ever since that undercover job you two pulled off. From what I've seen, I think he shares those feelings. So tell me, what happened last night to change that." When she dropped her eyes, his heart sank. "Oh, Christ, Toni! You didn't!"  
  
"Oh, yes," she replied, pushing his hands away, turning so that she wouldn't have to face his accusing stare. "I did." She buried her face in her hands and laughed bitterly. "I sure did. Got him right where I wanted him and took full advantage of it! How's that for a 'protector of the people'?"  
  
Winslow came up behind her and softly grasped her shoulders again. "It sounds like you're human after all," he told her. "Look how badly your timing sucks," he teased her. "Any other time, and under better circumstances, he'd be singing your praises. He's just feeling put out that he wasn't in any shape to enjoy it."  
  
"No," Toni moaned. "It goes deeper than that. While we were arguing about it, he was trying to tell me why it bothered him so much. But his head was hurting so bad he could hardly breathe. He was angry, telling me to leave him alone. I was only . . . God, I don't know what I was thinking! Anyway, I gave him one of those syringes Carter fixed up. Wh-while it was taking effect, he told me . . . I'd done . . . I 'd left him with nothing!" she hissed. "Nothing! That's why he wants to leave, Ken. And that's . . . that's why I have to let him."  
  
Brigatti dried her tears on a tissue before turning for the door.  
  
"I need a few minutes with him. Alone," she sighed. "Then, if you don't mind helping him get dressed, I'll call a cab. I don't . . . I don't think he wants anyone to know where he's going."  
  
She found Gary sitting up on the side of the bed, holding his head as if to keep it from falling off. Having found the clothes Winslow had brought from his apartment, her patient had managed to get as far as t-shirt and boxers before succumbing to the pain. He turned his head slightly at the sound of her footsteps. A look of alarm flashed across his face and he snatched the sheet over the lower half of his body, for concealment or . . . protection? Then, as if ashamed of his actions, a slow flush crept up his neck and on into his hairline. Swallowing nervously, Gary pushed the cover aside and began struggling into his jeans. He had to pull up one leg at a time, pull the pants over his feet, then lie back on the bed to get them over his hips and fasten them. That was as far as his limited strength would take him.  
  
"What do you want," he panted.  
  
"To apologize," she told him. "You were right. Last night shouldn't have happened. I'm . . ."  
  
"If you say your 'sorry'," he grumbled as he struggled to sit up, "I'm going to ask for your gun,"  
  
"What?" Where had that come from? "Why?"  
  
"So I can shoot myself!" he snapped. "I'm sick to death of that word! Everywhere I turn, someone is 'sorry'! And all they're doing is rubbing in what a sorry piece of . . . of work I've become. L-last night, that should've been something . . . a decision we'd both arrived at together. Something both of us were ready for. Instead something . . . beautiful became a . . . a power play." He picked up a blue, plaid shirt and began pulling it on. "It stopped being about 'us' before there even was an 'us'. It makes me wonder if . . . if you'd been planning something like this for a while. Not consciously," he hurriedly amended. "Maybe . . . maybe just daydreaming or . . . or something. Like I used to." This last was said in a barely audible murmur.  
  
"What can I say to make this better?" Toni pleaded. "How can I convince you that this wasn't a premeditated act of . . . of domination? I'll admit to . . . to wondering what it would be like. Occasionally. Was your being in that chair a deciding factor? I honestly don't know."  
  
Gary pulled the borrowed chair up and levered his body into it. "T-tell me this, then. Wh-what if . . . what if something comes of . . . this? How w-would you want to . . . to handle . . .?"  
  
"By 'something', you mean a baby?" Brigatti asked bitterly. "You think I'm totally blinded by hormones? I've been on the pill since I was eighteen! And what if there had been a baby? What would you have me do with it? Abortion? Over my dead body!"  
  
"No!" Gary protested vehemently. "It'd be my child, too! We'd be married, if . . . if you'd . . ."  
  
Toni didn't give him a chance to finish before she jumped down his throat with both feet. "You'd make an 'honest woman' of me?" she snapped. "Now who's being treated like a charity case? Give me a break, Hobson. You're not that big of a catch!" With that, she stormed out of the room, slamming the door.  
  
Gary was left alone, in the silence of the empty room to finally finish what he had wanted to say. "If you'd have me," he whispered dismally.  
  
*******************  
  
When the taxi finally arrived, Gary sought Toni out, finding her in her room. She sat on the other side of the bed, with her back to the door, much as the way he had earlier. He had found an old White Sox baseball cap among the things Winslow had brought, and was turning it over and over in his hands as he tried to talk.  
  
"I just wanted you to know," he told her quietly, without preamble, "why I brought that up . . . about a baby. Mom let it slip last year, j-just a few weeks before . . . before, um, she told me that I was the result of her and Dad . . .They had to get married. Not that they didn't love each other at the time. Mom said she always knew they'd get married someday. I just . . . pushed up the schedule by a year or so. I know that, in this day and age, single parents are as common as married couples. But . . . I'd want my child to at least know both its parents. To have some input on how he or she was raised, what kind of morality they were exposed to." Not getting any response from the rigid back, Gary turned to go. "Just one more thing," he added in a voice husky with pent up emotion, one hand on the doorknob. "I wasn't offering to marry you just for the sake of the child. I was asking if you'd be willing, for my own sake, because I, um, I had this misguided . . . impression . . . that I loved you. You made your answer pretty clear. Thank you for that, at least." He opened the door and pushed his way through before Toni could react to his revelation.  
  
It took her more than a moment to sort through what he had just told her. Damn! Trust him to be the first one to work up the courage to say it, and her to trample all over it before the words were even out of his mouth! She caught up with him as the taxi driver was helping him out the front door. He had been helped into his pea coat, with that same baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, as it had on that night so long ago. An eternity ago. When he had still trusted her.   
  
"Wait!" she said. "Don't go! We can talk this out!"  
  
"Everything's been said," he told her in that flat monotone that said he was hurting too badly to dare let it show. "Maybe it's for the best. At least we both know where we stand, now."  
  
"Damn you, Hobson! Don't you dare leave like this, or I'll . . ." Whoa! Major déjà vu!  
  
Apparently, he felt it, too. He looked up at her, just as he had that horrible night, his eyes wearing that same haunted expression.   
  
"Or what, Toni?" he asked in that same husky murmur, as the driver slowly backed him out the door. "Or what?"  
  
***************  
  
Gary directed the cabbie to take him to McGinty's first. There, he waited in the cab as the driver went in to ask for Robin. The pretty, dark-haired waitress hurried out a moment later.  
  
"Where have you been?" she asked anxiously. "Your mom is frantic! She and your dad got here early this morning and they are absolutely convinced that something terrible had happened to you! From the look of you, she was right!"  
  
"Tell her I'm fine," Gary lied. "I just couldn't sleep the other night and went out for a drive. Tell her I had a little trouble with the van, and I'll see her at the concert tomorrow night. Look, I . . . I've lost my wallet and need you to get me some money out of petty cash. About a hundred will do. And quick. The meter's running."  
  
Robin hurried to comply, bringing him about double what he had requested. Gary just took it and thanked her, asking her to give his parents and Marissa his love. "Tell her I'll be there to cheer her on," he added as the cab pulled away. Robin quickly pulled out her order book and began scribbling. She had a feeling that Lois and Bernie would be very interested in the name and number of the cab company. Maybe they could talk some sense into her hardheaded boss.  
  
Thirty minutes later, the cabbie was wheeling him into the office at the Casa Diablo Motel. He had finally remembered everything that had happened that night, and where to find his van. To his relief, the day manager had his wallet in the safe; minus his money and credit cards, of course. The money hadn't been that much, and the card companies had been notified before the stores had opened the day before. The thieves wouldn't get very far using those. Of course, Gary had to pay for an extra night, even though this was the first time he had even entered the room..  
  
He finally managed to get his chair over the sill and closed the door against the growing cold. Looking around, he wondered at the wisdom of his little rebellion, or the timing of it, at least. The room was small and the bed was too high for him to be able to get in and out of it without more trouble than it was worth. Still, it was warm and dry. And private. For the first time since he had left McGinty's the other night, Gary found himself truly alone.   
  
Gary was finding it hard to sort out his emotions. He should be happy to finally have the space he had been craving. Instead, all he felt was incredibly lonely and despondent. The scene with Toni had been . . . bad. He knew she hadn't meant to demean or degrade him, that she had . . . what? Wanted to comfort him? To console him? Why now, when she was usually more than ready to cut him off at the knees? It kept coming back to that damned chair. That was the only real difference that he could see. She felt . . . sorry for him! She had even admitted as much that first day when he'd come home from the hospital. When she told him how shaken she'd been that he had almost died. If she truly felt anything for him, it shouldn't take something that drastic for her to realize it. He'd felt . . . something the first time they had kissed.  
  
For just a moment, he thought she had, too.  
  
Something crawled down his cheek. Wiping at the tickling trail, Gary was not surprised to feel moisture. Great. He was getting sappy again. Doc Zimmerman had warned him that this was going to happen for a while, but he had thought he'd be past that by now. And, to top it off, his head was throbbing again. Now that he was alone, maybe it was safe to take something. He headed for the bathroom, intending to get some water, only to find the door too narrow for his chair to fit through. Oh, that was just dandy! And no hand rails. Wonderful. With a sigh, he returned to the bed and picked up the TV remote. Maybe there was something on the tube to distract him. When he hit the switch, however, he got nothing but a shower of sparks as the set shorted out! Startled, angry, and on edge from the pain, he tore the remote off its base and shattered it against the far wall! Suddenly, Gary felt very tired and alone. Nothing was right. Nothing would ever be right again!   
  
"God," he sighed, face buried in his hands. "What am I doing here? Why can't I just die and get it over with? Why do I have to drag everyone else down with me?"  
  
The sound of children's laughter drew Gary's attention to the window. Outside, he could see a group of children playing as snow fell around them in a thick curtain of white. Some of them were dancing in little circles, while others were throwing snowballs. Some even had the bottom half of a snowman in place. A tiny smile tugged at his lips as the joyful scene brought back vivid memories of his own happy childhood. A sense of nostalgia eased some of the tension lines around his eyes and mouth. His mind drifted back to those idyllic days when he was just a small child in a world full of infinite possibilities. Long before he had moved to Chicago. Before the Paper had ever entered his life. Leaning back, he let his eyes drift closed as the sound of distant laughter lulled his exhausted mind to sleep.  
  
***********  
  
Gary awoke with a painful start, unsure just what it was that had aroused him. Then something nudged him in the chin. Looking down, he almost got a mouth full of fur as the cat rubbed its head against his face once more.   
  
"Hey, fella," he murmured softly, stroking the orange fur. "What are you . . . Never mind," he sighed, picking up the Paper on the bed and shaking it at the cat. "Haven't you heard? I'm on sick leave." He tossed the Paper back on the bed without looking at it.  
  
A glance out the window told him that quite some time had passed since he had drifted off to sleep. The sun had already moved well past the noon position. Stretching to loosen up stiffened muscles, he wondered if he might be able drag himself into that bed after all. Maybe a good night's rest would help his head to stop hurting.  
  
What was that? Gary leaned forward in his chair to peer intently out the window, the pain in his head forgotten. That had sounded like a small child! The parking lot that had been full of kids at play earlier was now empty of everything but huge drifts of snow. Even the completed snowman was becoming just another shapeless mound as the frozen precipitation continued to fall.  
  
Alarmed, Gary snatched the Paper off the bed and opened it to the front page. "Child Missing After Record Snowfall." Dear God! Where . . .? The article gave the child's home address as just a few blocks from the motel. Could that be what he had heard?  
  
There it was again! A muffled cry that sounded like 'Mommy! Daddy! Help me!' Alarmed now, Gary strained to see through the thickening curtain of white. If some kid had gotten caught in one of those drifts . . .! There! A tiny dark spot was moving on the top of that drift to his right. Wow! The kid was in it pretty deep if only one hand was showing!  
  
Not bothering to read the rest of the article, Gary tossed the Paper aside and quickly made his way over the doorsill, not bothering to close the door. He tried calling out, at first, hoping to attract the attention of the child's friends, but no one answered. Why had they run off and left him alone? He couldn't recall what the Paper had said about that.  
  
The snow was falling much heavier than it had been just a few minutes ago. The drifts that he had seen so clearly from his room were now little more than indistinct shapes in a swirling white haze. Gary kept shouting as he fought to propel his chair through the ever-deepening drifts, but there was no one to hear! Everyone had gone in to escape the storm, leaving only himself to rescue one frightened child!  
  
Gary put every ounce of strength he had into the effort, but the chair was soon bogged down in snow halfway to his knees. As he struggled and cursed, the tiny spot that was the child's mitten-clad hand grew still. Desperate, Gary launched himself into the snow and clawed his way forward.   
  
"I'm coming!" he panted. "Just hang on, kid! Help is . . . on its . . . way!"  
  
In a frantic journey that lasted only a few minutes, but felt like an eternity, Gary finally reached that tiny, silent plea. He scrabbled anxiously at the child's icy tomb, praying that he was not too late! Gary almost sobbed with relief when the small shape shifted under his questing hands!   
  
Trembling with exhaustion, Gary gathered a small boy into his arms. He couldn't have been more than five or six years old. Again, he wondered why the child had been left alone and why no one had come looking for him.  
  
"You okay, kid?" Gary asked the shivering child as he brushed the snow from his tiny face.  
  
"Cold," the little boy whimpered miserably. He snuggled into Gary's embrace with a sleepy little sigh. "Home?"  
  
"Yeah," Gary sighed. "Sure, kid. No problem." He wrapped his arms tighter around the tiny, half-frozen form. Unless the child roused enough to cling to his back, there was no way he could carry him out of the drift and find help. "Wh-what's your name? I can't keep calling you 'kid'. Mine's G-Gary."  
  
"Elliot," the little boy murmured drowsily.   
  
"Elliot," Gary chuckled. "Th-that's a nice name. Now, li-listen up, Elliot. I can't walk, so I can't c-carry you in my arms. Can you lay on . . . on my back and h-hang on? That way . . . that way I can crawl us . . . crawl us to the street. Find h-help."  
  
The little boy made no answer as he snuggled deeper into Gary's chest. The poor little guy was already asleep, Gary realized. There was no way he could cling to Gary's back on his own. Plus, such a move would leave the child more exposed than he was in Gary's arms. Helplessly, Gary looked around for a solution. He was already covered in another six inches of fresh snow, just since he had uncovered Elliot. If he tried rolling to the bottom of the drift, how long before they were buried even deeper?   
  
No, Elliot's only chance was to share the heat from Gary's larger body, and for help to arrive quickly! Keeping this in mind, Gary opened up the front of his pea coat and wrapped the tiny form in close to his chest. God! The kid was like a chunk of ice! Once he had the boy secure against the cold, Gary began yelling at the top of his lungs! Where were the boy's parents? Why hadn't they come looking for their son before now? Come to think of it, where was the hotel manager? Couldn't he hear? Or did he just not care? Was there no one else in the entire place that could, or would, come to their aid? Apparently not.  
  
Gary screamed until he was hoarse, all the while trying to keep the snow knocked down so he could be seen. When he could no longer scream, he kept calling in a harsh croak, until even that was impossible. How much time had passed? Why wasn't anyone looking for this child? Didn't they care?  
  
Finally, exhausted, his voice gone, Gary could only hug the tiny shape in a little closer and pray. 'Please, God! Please, don't let this little one die!'  
  
***************  
  
The snow was falling in gentle drifts. Big, fat fluffy puffs of white that clung to his face and hands. He was six again, enjoying the first snow of winter. Laughing, he scooped up handfuls of the icy crystals and flung them skyward in a fine, frozen spray. The whole world had taken on a fairytale splendor.   
  
"Gary!"  
  
The child turned towards the distant voice. 'Momma?' Slowly, as if plowing through molasses, he started back the way he had come. It was a lot harder going back, for some reason, than it had been going forward. The gentle shower of flakes grew thicker, harder . . . and heavier with each step! In his mind, he called out to his momma for help. He couldn't see her! Soon, the snow had piled up around him so high that he was barely able to move! 'Momma, Daddy!' he called out into the whiteness. 'Help me!'  
  
***************  
  
Lois and Bernie pulled into the snow-blanketed parking lot almost on the bumper of the unmarked car driven by Paul Armstrong. It had taken them hours to find the cabbie and convince him to tell where he had taken Gary. Then the storm had closed off most of the streets, forcing them to take a roundabout route to their destination.  
  
Armstrong had finally gotten the report on Hobson's arrest and was hoping to find the missing man somewhere in the vicinity of where he'd originally been found. When Winslow had told him about the injured man's hurried departure, Paul had checked, first of all, to see if he'd returned home. No one there had seen him since he had left for Hickory. Furious with the two detectives for letting him go off alone, he had promised to get the full story once Hobson was found.  
  
The night manager was more than eager to cooperate when Armstrong waved his badge under the man's nose. Although the anguished look on Lois's face may have had something to do with it. Mother and cop spotted the open door at almost the same moment. Snow had spilled over three feet into the room.  
  
"Oh, God! Where could he be?" she asked in a choked voice. "Why would he have gone out in . . . in this?" She waved a hand at the snow that continued to fall in a thick curtain of white.  
  
"You're asking the wrong man," Armstrong sighed. "That son of yours makes a career out of doing the unexpected!"  
  
"Over here!"  
  
Lois and Paul were out the door before the echo faded. They saw Bernie flinging snow aside in huge clumps and sprays. When Lois saw what he was uncovering, she could have sworn she'd felt her heart skip a beat! It was the handle to an empty wheelchair!   
  
"Gary!" she screamed. "Dear God, please let him answer! Gary!"   
  
"He couldn't have gotten far," Paul reasoned. He started clawing at the base of the nearest drift. "Hobson! Answer me, man! Hobson!"  
  
In the distance, Bernie thought he heard other voices calling for someone. It sounded like 'Elliot'. Was someone else lost in the snow? A young couple came plowing through the drifts, calling at the top of their lungs.  
  
"Have you seen a little boy?" the woman asked the moment she saw them. "His name is Elliot and he's only five," she sobbed. "He was . . . was playing 'hide and seek' with the . . . the other children and they j-just left him out here! That was hours ago! They just told us when we went to pick him up, and he's only five!" she wailed.  
  
"We've got someone missing, too," Bernie told them, indicating the empty chair. "Knowing my son, when we find him, we'll probably find yours. Now, he had to crawl through this stuff, so they can't be far. Just pick a spot and dig."  
  
The young couple set to work with frantic enthusiasm. Using the chair as a starting point, the five of them fanned out and began their desperate search. Another hour passed with more cops joining in the search in answer to Armstrong's hurried call. Bright lights illuminated the grim scene as everyone alternated calling for Gary or Elliot, praying that one or the other would be in good enough shape to answer. They had soon leveled every drift that they figured could be within crawling distance of the already injured man.  
  
Lois was the first to see it. An orange smudge moving halfway up a ten-foot drift. It looked . . . it was! The cat was digging furiously at the thick covering of snow!   
  
"Gary!" she cried hopefully. All eyes turned to her as she scrambled up the icy slope and began flinging snow from the spot where the cat had been excavating. It was so far from where they had found the chair! Could Gary have possibly crawled such a distance? When she uncovered a sleeve-clad arm, a cheer went up! "Thank you, God! Thank you!" she sobbed as the others joined her in her efforts.  
  
Minutes later, they were prying the unconscious child from Gary's near-frozen grasp. Elliot stirred sleepily as he was passed into his mother's arms. She hugged him close, marveling that he was still so warm, when the man who had held him so protectively for so long was blue and shivering from the cold. It was as if he had given all the heat from his own body to save her child.  
  
"Thank you," she said in a breathless, joyful sob. "God bless you all for saving my baby."  
  
"It wasn't us," Armstrong remarked dryly. He was kneeling next to the shivering, blanket wrapped form of the man they had found with Elliot. "If he hadn't kept Elliot warm, we would've been too late. Where's that ambulance?" he called out to his men.  
  
"Still stuck in the snow," a uniformed officer told him. "They're about three blocks away, now."  
  
"We need to get these two warm," the big detective mumbled. "Let's get the snow cleared out of that doorway and get them inside," he ordered. He turned to the suddenly still figure of Gary Hobson. "Man, you've got to stop doing this!" he exclaimed softly, feeling for a pulse. Not finding one, he began CPR. "Get that room clear!" he shouted. "Someone go dig that ambulance out! Tell them we need that equipment now!" Bernie came running up with extra blankets and Paul put him to work breathing air into Gary's motionless chest. To his relief, they got a pulse back on the unconscious man within minutes.   
  
It was the work of only moments to clear the doorway and bundle the half-frozen man into his bed. Lois quickly cranked the heat up as high as it would go, while Bernie and Elliot's father went in search of more blankets. The child protested weakly that he was too warm, bringing a tearful smile to his mother's face.  
  
"M-momma?"  
  
Lois Hobson leaned in close, the better to hear her son's barely audible words. "I'm here, Gary," she murmured softly.   
  
"H-heard . . . heard you c-calling," he gasped in a raspy whisper, too weak to open his eyes. "T-time to c-come in?"  
  
"Yes, sweetie," Lois sniffed. "It's time to come in. How do you feel?"  
  
"C-cold," he murmured. "Throat hurts. We . . . we got a-any cocoa?"  
  
"Cocoa?"  
  
"Y-yeah," Gary nodded with a wistful smile. "B-been thinkin' 'bout it . . . all th-the way home."  
  
Lois smiled tearfully as she recalled how much he used to love hot cocoa after a hard day playing in the snow. "Soon," she told him in a soothing tone. She smoothed the hair back from his forehead, telling him, "You go to sleep now, hon. When you wake up, I'll get you a big, steaming cup. Okay?"  
  
" 'Kay," Gary rasped drowsily. "Marshmallows?"  
  
"Yes, dear," she chuckled. "With marshmallows. Now, go to sleep." As Gary drifted off once more, she turned a tear-streaked face to the others. "He's delirious," she sighed. "He . . . he hasn't called me 'Momma' since he was eight. Where's that ambulance?"  
  
*****************  
  
A sharp pain in his left arm, followed by a warm sensation crawling through his flesh, caused Gary to open his eyes once more. He looked up to see a strange man in an EMT's uniform bending over him. Dazed and disoriented, he peered around, quickly spotting his parents and Armstrong. His coat and shirt were gone, and a thick layer of blankets had taken their place. Raising his head a little, he saw a strange woman cradling a blanket wrapped form in her arms. She was rocking back and forth in the room's only chair.  
  
"He . . . 'kay?" he rasped hoarsely.  
  
"The little boy? He's fine," the paramedic replied, glancing over his shoulder at the child. "In fact, his folks will probably take him home tonight. How about you, sport? How are you feeling?"  
  
"C-cold," Gary replied in a voice that was little more than a whispered croak. "Heavy. Wh-what . . .?" He tried to push at the thick layer of blankets that weighed him down, only to find he lacked the strength to even raise his arms. "Wha's wrong . . . this time?"  
  
"Nothing much," the young man replied with a grim smile. "Just a touch of hypothermia and cardiac arrest. Nothing new for you from what Detective Armstrong tells me. We've heated up the IV a little to warm you up a little faster. And there's a nice warm ambulance waiting to take you to the hospital."  
  
"N-no," Gary insisted, shaking his head for emphasis. "No hospital." With a huge effort he reached his right hand over to grasp the IV, letting it drop when he was unable to summon the strength to pull it out. "No h-hospital," he repeated. "H-home. Want . . . want to go . . . home."  
  
"Mr. Hobson," the EMT sighed, "your body temperature was below . . ."  
  
"D-don't c-care," the shivering man protested. "W-want to go h-home."  
  
"If you'd done that in the first place," Armstrong reminded him, "you wouldn't be in this mess and I wouldn't have had to jump start your heart. Again. Now, I'm not listening to any of your arguments this time, Hobson. You are going with these men, even if I have to load you on the stretcher myself!"  
  
"H-home," Gary murmured huskily. His last reserves of strength spent, his eyes slid shut once more and he fell silent.  
  
The young paramedic lifted Gary's eyelids one at a time, then checked his vital signs once more before turning to the detective with a relieved sigh. "He's just out of it," he reported. "Which is good, at this point. If he's conscious, we have to abide by his wishes, not yours."  
  
"Then load him up and get him out," Armstrong insisted, "before he wakes up. Let the ER docs argue with him."  
  
******************  
  
When Gary once more awakened, it was to the all too familiar sound of monitors beeping. He was in the ER. Again. This was really getting old. At least he didn't feel cold anymore. Slowly, he opened his eyes, turning his head to look around. Yep, he'd definitely been here before. He tried to call out to the nurse he could see standing by the med cart, but all that came out was a raspy croak. It was enough, however, to get her attention.  
  
"Good," she greeted him with a smile. "You're awake, finally. I'll get Dr. Carter. He's been waiting to speak with you."  
  
"Nice," Gary rasped. God, his throat hurt! "Go . . . home . . . now?" he asked painfully.  
  
She just smiled and said, "I'll get the doctor." She hurried out the door before Gary could muster up enough voice for a protest. With a sigh, he lay back and closed his eyes. "This sucks," he whispered to himself.  
  
A few minutes later, Dr. Carter and Gary's parents rushed into the room, followed closely by Paul Armstrong. He gave them a half-hearted wave.  
  
"Thank God, you're awake," Lois cried joyfully. "We've been . . . You've got to stop scaring us like this, Gary!"  
  
"Yeah, Kiddo," Bernie joined in. "Don't you know heart failure is contagious? Your mother and I both liked to've had one!"  
  
"Sorry," he croaked. "G'home . . . now?"  
  
"We need to keep you overnight, Gary," Carter replied with a shake of his head. "Do you have any idea how long you were in that drift?"  
  
Closing his eyes, Gary tried to think back. It had been past noon when he heard Elliot's cries. How long had it taken him to fight his way through the drifts?  
"It was . . . after two," he rasped out. "I . . . I think."  
  
"It was after eight when we found you," Armstrong reported. "You were under that mess for six hours, Hobson. Why aren't you dead?"  
  
"He's too tough to die," Bernie spoke up with a rueful grin. "I don't think he knows how to give up."  
  
"Regardless of the reason," the young doctor commented, "you survived . . . again. As a result, however, you have a bad case of laryngitis, and you're running a low-grade fever. We really need to keep you for a few days, pump you full of antibiotics."  
  
"No!" Gary cried hoarsely. "Con . . . concert . . . M-Marissa . . . to-tomorrow . . .!"  
  
"I'm sure she'll understand," Lois tried to reassure him. "With everything you've just been through . . ."  
  
Gary shook his head in vehement protest. "Promised!" he wheezed past the burning in his throat. "W-won't let her d-down!" He lay back, closing his eyes in a grimace of pain. 'God! That hurt!' "S-stay . . . un-until . . . time. No . . . no more."  
  
Carter finally nodded. Perhaps, if his stubborn patient wasn't feeling any better by then, they could reason with him in the morning.  
  
*********************  
  
When Gary awoke the next morning, it was to a throbbing pain in the back of his skull. At least it no longer filled his entire head. The room felt way too cold, and his throat burned. It was as if someone had taken sandpaper and stripped off the top two layers of the lining of his throat. Just trying to swallow past the fire and swelling in his throat was agony. 'Great,' he thought to himself. 'I've swapped a headache for tonsillitis. Wonderful trade-off.' He tried to turn his head and look around. A move that proved ill advised, as it touched off a bout of dizziness. He quickly squeezed his eyes shut, desperately clutching the sides of the mattress as the room whirled around him. 'Whoa! Stop this ride! I want off!' he silently pleaded.  
  
Finally, everything settled into its proper place. Gary opened one eye experimentally. When the walls and ceiling stayed where they belonged, he allowed the other one to join the party. The room remained stationary. 'So far, so good,' he mused. Cautiously, he tried turning his eyes to the left, letting his head follow more slowly. 'Easy does it,' he cautioned himself. 'We don't want to ride that roller-coaster again!'  
  
The first thing he saw was his mother, sound asleep in a recliner. She looked tired, faint lines of tension etched around her eyes. Gary decided not to wake her up, if he could avoid it. Slowly turning his head to the right, he spotted his father in an armchair near the foot of the bed, feet propped up on the windowsill. He had his chin resting on his chest, snoring softly. 'Have they both been there all night?' Gary wondered.  
  
The burning in his throat was a persistent torment. Just breathing was slow torture! Gary carefully looked around for some kind of relief. A cup and pitcher sat on a tray table near the middle of the bed on the right. 'God, please don't let it be empty,' he prayed. 'I only need a sip. Just a sip.' He slowly stretched his hand out, intending to grasp the cup. A sudden, involuntary, jerk of his hand sent ice and water cascading onto the floor. For the first time, he noticed the bandages that covered both of his hands.   
  
His dad jerked awake when a few drops of water landed on his dangling hand. Quickly assessing the situation, Bernie grabbed a towel off the foot of the bed and began drying off the table, then lay the towel on the floor to soak up the rest.  
  
"Hey, Gar," he greeted his son with a lopsided grin. "Good to see you awake, kiddo. Thirsty?"  
  
Gary just nodded, slowly. Even that much movement sent slivers of fire throughout his neck and head. God! Even the insides of his ears were burning!  
  
Bernie grabbed the pitcher, saying he would be "right back." As good as his word, he was back in just a few minutes, spooning crushed ice into a cup.   
  
"They said you should just let these melt in the back of your throat," Bernie cautioned, as he fed Gary a small spoonful of the chilly crystals.   
  
Gary did as instructed, letting the coolness trickle down the inside of his throat. The first one did little to ease the fire that still raged there, but the second was a definite, if slight, improvement. By the third, his mother was awake and he was able to rasp out a weak "Hi, Mom."  
  
"I don't know what we're gonna do with you," Lois sighed. Her hand automatically started brushing the hair back from his feverish brow. The heat she felt radiating off of her son belied the shivers that still, occasionally, shook his slender frame. "Here we finally let you out of our sight, and you're right back where you started from. I think your father and I should have a little talk with your guardian angel. He's falling down on the job. Big time."  
  
Gary was too tired to argue with her. Besides, it still hurt so bad to try to speak. A frown creased his brow as he tried to think. He needed something to write on. Through gestures, he quickly got his parents to understand his needs. Lois fished a pen and a pad out of her purse, as Bernie raised the head of the bed up so that Gary could be more comfortable. Holding the pen and pad clumsily in his bandaged hands, he began to write.  
  
'I still want to go to Marissa's concert tonight.'  
  
"Gary," Lois sighed, "be reasonable. You're in no shape to be going all that way tonight! You have a fever, can't talk, and you barely have the strength to hold that pen. Marissa would be the first to tell you not to go."  
  
'Promised!' Gary underscored the single word several times for emphasis. 'I'm going!'  
  
"And how do you propose to get there?" his mother asked, equally as stubborn. "I will not drive you! Neither will your father."  
  
The look Gary gave her was one of such hurt and . . . betrayal, Lois almost gave in. His next message almost broke her heart.  
  
'Am I a prisoner, then? Don't I have any say in this?'  
  
"No!" Bernie protested vehemently. "Of course not! I mean, yes! You know what I mean! But we can't let you out in this weather in the shape you're in! Think how Marissa would feel if you got worse, or died because of a promise you made her! It would break her heart!"  
  
Gary took the note pad back and flipped to the next page. Scribbling furiously, he finally handed it back to his mother.  
  
'I need to go,' he'd written. 'I've let her down too often in the past. I need to be there for her, the way she's always been there for me. Please!'  
  
Bernie read the message over Lois's shoulder and shook his head. "Sorry, kiddo," he sighed. "I have to side with your mother on this one. You're just too sick. You came within a whisker of dying last night. You have frostbite on both hands, the tip of your nose and both cheeks, too. You don't have the strength to get into your chair on your own. You're definitely in no shape to drive. Hell, I doubt you could sit up in the chair even if we put you in it!"  
  
Gary held his hand out for the pad once more. His message this time was short.   
  
'Please!'   
  
He gave both his parents a desperate, pleading look. When Lois and Bernie both shook their heads, Gary just let his head drop back onto the pillow and closed his eyes. Lois tried to press the note pad back into his hands, but he pushed it away. He made it obvious that he had nothing more to say to them.   
  
Lois and Bernie tried to reason with him, but he refused to even look at them. He would not even open his mouth for the ice chips his mother offered to soothe his sore throat. After a while, she gave up, leaving him to his stony silence. She and Bernie sat there patiently, conversing quietly in the hopes that Gary would finally see that they had only his best interests in mind.  
  
The nurses came and went, giving Gary medication through his IV or checking his vital signs. He made no move of either greeting or protest. Despondent, he simply let them do whatever they came to do and leave. It was as if nothing mattered anymore. Once again, matters had been taken out of his hands and he was no longer in control. So be it. If they wanted to treat him like a thing instead of a person, there wasn't much he could do to stop them. This time, he couldn't even speak! How could he even hope to convince them how important this was to him?   
  
The nurse brought Gary a breakfast of juices, jell-o and some type of clear broth. He pushed it away without even looking at it. When Lois tried to persuade him to eat, he turned his head away, shutting her out.  
  
"I just don't understand what's gotten into him," Lois sighed. She and Bernie were sitting in the cafeteria, trying to eat their own breakfast. "He's never been that much into gospel music before. Why the urgency to go to this thing?"  
  
"Because of Marissa?" Bernie mused. "They've become pretty close friends."  
  
"But she wouldn't want him risking his health for a concert!" Lois insisted. "No. It's more than that. I'm just too tired to think what it could be."  
  
"Same here," Gary's father sighed. "I mean, it's not like he really has a . . . choice. Oh my . . . That's it!"  
  
"What's it?" Lois mumbled wearily.  
  
"Remember way back when all this first started?" he asked her. "That doctor . . . Zimmerman, I think it was. He said that Gary needed to feel in control, to make his own decisions. So now, all of a sudden we're telling him he can't do something he obviously has his heart set on doing. We're treating him like our child instead of like the man he's become. We've grounded 'im, for Christ's sake!"  
  
Lois sat back in her seat, her mouth falling open in astonishment. He was right! The answer was so simple! Why hadn't she seen it herself?  
  
"We have to find some way to get him to that concert," she told her husband. "We just have to. Maybe that nice Dr. Carter has some ideas."  
  
*****************  
  
Gary was still staring miserably out the window when his parents burst into the room an hour later. Startled he turned to look at them, squeezing his eyes shut when the walls began to dance once more.   
  
"Good news, sweetie," Lois was saying when he was finally able to open his eyes. "We called Marissa and, because of the weather, they had to postpone the concert until tomorrow night. Dr. Carter thinks that, if you respond well to the treatment, we should be able to take you."  
  
"Better yet," Bernie added, "it's been moved to just a few blocks from here. Part of the roof caved in at the auditorium where they'd planned on holding it. So Union Center volunteered their auditorium free of charge. It's like . . . like someone wants you at that concert."  
  
Giving them a puzzled look, Gary made writing motions with his hands. Lois quickly found her pad and pen.  
  
'What changed your minds?' he scribbled hurriedly.  
  
"We got to thinking," Lois replied, giving Bernie a sidelong glance. "You were right to be angry with us. We were right, too," she was quick to add. "You're way too sick to go tonight. But, it really wasn't our decision and we handled it so badly." She placed one hand on top of Gary's bandaged ones. "All we could see was our little boy, sick, injured and in pain. We completely forgot that . . . that you're all grown up with a mind of your own. You're perfectly capable of making your own decisions and we had no business trampling all over your choices in the manner we did. We never should have made you beg us to see your side of it. I'm so sorry we put you through that!"  
  
"We both are," Bernie told him, covering his wife's hand with his own calloused one. "Can you forgive us, Gar?"  
  
The corner of Gary's mouth twitched as he took back the pad and pen. He handed it back with a suspicious gleam of moisture in his eyes.  
  
'I love you both so much!' he'd written.   
  
He reached out and pulled both of them into a fierce hug. When they finally turned loose of each other, Lois wiped at his stubble-covered cheek with a tissue.   
  
"We really need to get you a razor," she commented with a little sniffle. "You look like a lumberjack. Does this mean you'll eat, now? And get plenty of rest?"  
  
'Yes, Mommy.' Gary handed her the note with a tiny grin. Lois read it, giving him an exasperated look.  
  
"I guess I deserved that," she grinned. "I'm going to see if I can round up something to get rid of that beard. And, if you're a good little boy, I might even get you that hot cocoa you asked for last night."  
  
Gary scrawled another note. He handed it to her with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. It read: 'With marshmallows?'  
  
"So, you do remember!" Bernie laughed. "We were wondering if you would. Hey, that reminds me. You won me ten bucks from one of the EMTs." At Gary's questioning look, he continued. "He was saying something to his partner about every patient's first words, when they 'came to,' were either 'where am I?' or 'what happened?' I bet him that your's would be asking about the kid. Gave me two to one odds."  
  
With a tiny smile playing across his frostbitten face, Gary wrote another note.  
  
'And you only bet five? Oh, ye of little faith!'  
  
****************  
  
Gary flinched as Lois tried to apply shaving cream to his frostbitten cheek. Just the slightest touch sent a burning sensation through his cold-ravaged skin. Even as gentle as she tried to be, Gary had to sign for her to stop. The skin was just too sensitive.  
  
"Maybe we can just trim it up a little," Lois sighed, carefully wiping away the tiny bit of lather with a tissue. "I really wish you'd have shaved at least once before getting frozen half to death. You're going to look like a pirate."  
  
'Yo-ho-ho!' Gary wrote. 'Just call me 'Blackbeard.'  
  
"Not yet," Lois mumbled on reading the note. "It's not heavy enough to call it a beard, yet, and 'Thick Black Stubble' just hasn't got that piratey 'ring' to it. What I am going to call you is 'Stubborn' and 'Mule-headed'." She brushed the hair back from his forehead in a gesture she had repeated a thousand times before. "You're still running a fever and having difficulty breathing, although you hide it well. Now, I'm not saying this to argue with you, but are you sure you need to be going out tonight?"  
  
'Yes,' he wrote. 'I am. I really need to do this, Mom. I can't explain why, because I don't exactly know myself, but please have enough faith in me to know my own mind on this. It's important.'  
  
"Don't worry, hon," she smiled. "I've learned my lesson on that issue. Just don't expect me to stop worrying. That will never happen."  
  
Gary gave her a wan smile that pulled painfully at his damaged skin, as he wrote her another note.  
  
'Can't expect you to lay aside 35 years experience,' he wrote.   
  
"So long as you understand that," she told him, "we'll get through this just fine. How's your throat feeling? Have you tried to talk anymore today?"  
  
"Still . . . hurts," Gary croaked painfully.  
  
"Then hang on to that notebook," his mother sighed. "Your father and I can be your voice for tonight." She laid the shaving cream aside and wiped her hands on a towel. "I'm going to go talk to Dr. Carter. Maybe he has an idea of how to neaten up that hairy face of yours."  
  
Gary quickly scribbled another note and handed it to her.  
  
"Ice cream?" Lois looked at him incredulously. "You almost froze to death and you want ice cream?" Gary rubbed at his throat in answer. "Oh! Yes, I see. Any particular flavor? Or just whatever I can find."  
  
'Pineapple sherbet or vanilla?'  
  
"I'll see what I can do," she promised.  
  
***********************  
  
"Trust me, Mrs. Hobson," Dr. Carter told her, "Gary will not want you to shave him for a few more days, at least!"  
  
"Now you tell me," Lois grumbled. "Even the lather hurts him. Do you know anyone who can at least trim it up for him? Make him look a little less shaggy? Going to this concert tonight is very important to him, for some reason, and I'm sure he'd like to look his best." Dr. Carter gave her an amused, raised eyebrow, look. "His best under the circumstances," she quickly amended. "I know he looks like 'death warmed over,' which technically he is, but there must be something we can do to neaten him up just a little."  
  
"I'll ask Mr. Mott to give him a trim," Carter promised. "He's the guy who preps our surgery patients. The man has an incredibly delicate touch."  
  
"Good," Lois sighed. "Right now, I think he'll flinch if you look at him too hard."  
  
******************  
  
Marissa found herself pacing nervously backstage. This was not the first time she had ever performed in front of an audience, just never one this large. Then, to add to her apprehension, she had only now been told it was going to be televised! She found herself wishing that she could talk to Gary before she went on. Ever since that day when they had cemented their friendship over dinner, she had come to rely on him for the same kind of moral and spiritual support that he had needed from her. Now, when she needed him desperately, he was stuck in the hospital. Again. Marissa wished she had known, earlier, what a terrible time he had been going through. Perhaps she could have helped him somehow.  
  
"Ms. Clark?" It was one of the parishioners acting as a stagehand. "There's a Mr. Hobson asking to see you."  
  
"Gary?" Incredible! She'd just been thinking about him!  
  
"I believe he said his name was Bernie."  
  
"Oh," Marissa sighed in disappointment. "I guess Gary was too sick to make it. Could you take me to him? I'd like to know how Gary's doing."  
  
"Right this way."  
  
The stagehand quickly guided her to an alcove just outside the entrance to the auditorium. Lois and Bernie were waiting for her there. They quickly embraced their sightless friend.  
  
"I'm so glad you're here!" Marissa exclaimed. "How's Gary? Have you been to see him today? Is he doing okay? I never did hear exactly what happened, this time. Please, tell me he's going to be alright!"  
  
"If you'll let us get a word in edgewise," Bernie chuckled, "we'll tell you everything we know. But, first, there's someone here who wants to see you."  
  
"Please don't touch his face," Lois cautioned her. "His skin is very sensitive right now. Over here, sweetie."  
  
"Who . . .?"  
  
"Hi . . . 'Rissa."  
  
Oh! She'd know that voice anywhere! Even in that rusty, painful rasp. As she rushed toward the sound of his voice, the first thing she encountered was a short metal rail. She then felt a cloth-wrapped hand enclose hers. Marissa found that Gary was strapped to a hospital gurney, his head raised until he was halfway sitting erect.  
  
"Gary! You made it! Oh, thank God! You're okay? Oh, I'm so happy you're here. How are you feeling? You sound awful!" Marissa gently touched his forehead, causing him to flinch away. She apologized quickly, belatedly mindful of Lois's warning, but not before she'd felt the heat radiating from his feverish brow. "You're burning up! Should you be out in your condition? And you can barely talk! Oh, Gary! What are you doing here? I would've understood . . .!"  
  
All this time, Gary was scribbling furiously. He handed the note to his mother.  
  
"Slow down, Marissa," Lois told the babbling woman. "Gary wants me to tell you that he wouldn't have missed hearing you sing for anything. He says that he's feeling much better, which is a lie, and that he wanted you to know that he was here for you. He knows how nervous you get just before one of these things."  
  
The stagehand reappeared at that moment to announce that it was time for everyone to take their positions. He waited as Marissa gave Lois and Bernie a quick hug.   
  
She then turned to her friend. "Don't get me wrong, Gary," she said. "I'm so glad you're here. But, if you get worse because you felt you had to keep a promise to me, I will put you out of your misery myself!" She gave him a quick hug, then turned to go. A gentle tug on her sleeve stopped her.  
  
"Gary says he may hold you to that," Bernie told her.  
  
******************  
  
The EMTs moved the gurney to the back of the auditorium. They were not there exclusively for Gary's sake. It had been decided that, considering the weather conditions and the size of the crowd, it might be prudent to have medical personnel on hand. Dr. Carter, on the other hand, was there strictly for the sake of his patient. Because the gurney might, possibly, be needed elsewhere, they moved a chaise lounge in from the prop room and transferred Gary to that, situating it in the aisle near the back rows so that he faced the stage.  
  
"How are you feeling?" Dr. Carter asked, sticking a thermometer in Gary's mouth. He read the note Gary scribbled just before he checked the results. "You say 'fine'," he remarked. "But this says 'lousy.' Your fever's climbing again. If it doesn't come down soon, you could go into systemic shock or seizure. Before that happens, it's back to the hospital. No matter what." He turned to one of the EMTs. "See if you can get some bags full of ice to set around him. Or snow. Get someone to go out and fill some plastic garbage bags with snow. Anything to get his temp down."  
  
"On my way, Doc."  
  
"Gary? Gary Hobson?"  
  
Carter looked up to see a short, stocky woman with medium length dark blonde hair coming their way. She had a friendly, heart-shaped face and wide-set hazel eyes.  
  
"Hi . . . Clare," Gary croaked.   
  
"No talking," Carter admonished. He turned to the woman and introduced himself. "Are you a friend of Gary's?"  
  
"We've worked together . . . briefly," she replied cryptically. "My name is Clare. I'm a professional psychic. I helped Gary locate a missing baby a couple of years ago. He claims he doesn't have 'The Gift', but he always seems to know when trouble is about to start. What happened this time, slugger?" she asked   
  
Before Gary could try to speak again, Carter quickly told her about his being trapped in the snow with a lost child. As he talked, Clare studied the feverish man with her 'other' sense wide open. She did not like what she saw. His aura was a mess. It showed her the healed damage to his spine and left leg, as well as all his other injuries. It also showed the damage to his spirit. She read a constant struggle between hope and despair, with despair currently coming out on top. She had a feeling that what the doctor was telling her was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.  
  
"You look like hell, Hobson," she sighed. "Inside and out. Have you had any . . . spiritual counseling?" she asked.  
  
Gary just shook his head as the EMT returned and started packing plastic bags filled with ice and snow around him. He scrawled another message and handed it to the psychic.  
  
'I'm not so sure God wants to hear from me right now,' he'd written. 'That's part of why I'm here.'  
  
She gave him a puzzled look in reply, so Gary scribbled some more.  
  
'Maybe, tonight, He'll let me know something, one way or the other. Can't hurt to try.'  
  
"Sweetie," she sighed, "you've got to have faith to hear God's voice. Do you even believe in God? Seriously."  
  
Gary just shrugged. Or was it a shiver? With all the ice they were packing around him, it was hard to be sure.  
  
At that moment, Lois and Bernie returned from the concession stand with hot coffee and pastries. Quick introductions were made as they all took their seats. Clare's was in the last row, by choice. Her gift made it difficult to be comfortable in a crowd, yet she loved spiritual music. Sitting in the back row had proved to be an equitable compromise. In this case, it also gave her a good view of the man who had helped her come to terms with her abilities, even though he claimed to have no such powers of his own. She would have loved more time to get to know Gary's parents, but the lights were beginning to dim. The concert was ready to begin.  
  
"Welcome ladies and gentlemen," the emcee began, "to the Greater Chicago Interfaith Concert. We are pleased to be able to present you with a marvelous selection of uplifting, spiritual music from some of the more prominent religions found in our fair city."  
  
The show started with a Jewish Cantor giving a solo performance. His voice was a very rich tenor that brought a depth and warmth to his songs that was so moving, even though she couldn't understand a word of Hebrew.   
  
The Cantor was followed by a succession of singers from various denominations, including Catholic, Protestant, Baptist, and several lesser known sects. Each performer, or group of performers, put their hearts and souls into each song or hymn. The result was one of the most spiritually moving experiences Clare had ever been privileged to be witness to. The only distressing part of the evening came whenever she looked over at Hobson.   
  
The ailing man's fever kept rising in spite of repeated applications of ice and the forcing of cool liquids. His pale features contrasted sharply with the dark stubble on the lower half of his face and the ruddiness of the frostbite. From where she sat, Clare could see that he kept slipping in and out of consciousness. The concern on Dr. Carter's face was evident to anyone with eyes. Several times, he motioned for the EMTs, only for Gary to come to enough to gainsay his decision. 'Just what is it that's driving him?' she wondered. Why was he so determined to stay?  
  
Finally, the emcee stepped up to the mike and announced that Ms. Marissa Clark had requested to sing a special selection for a very special friend. As the blind woman was led up to the microphone, she gave the audience a grateful smile.  
  
"This is for the man who inspired me to go beyond my limitations and reach for the stars," she said to the audience. "Gary, this is in hopes that you find the peace you so desperately need." The music began gently and built up to Marissa's cue.  
  
Blest are they, the poor in spirit theirs is the Kingdom of God;  
Blest are they, full of sorrow, they shall be consoled!  
  
Clare wished that her own voice were as rich and throaty as the young blind woman's. And the song! It seemed to fit Gary so perfectly! He was certainly full of sorrow, from what she could see. And his spirit seemed at an all-time low. She vividly recalled the first time she had seen him, how he had come bursting into her séance to drag her and her client out before a gas leak killed them both.  
  
Blest are they, the lowly ones, they shall inherit the earth;  
Blest are they, who hunger and thirst, they shall have their fill!  
  
It was almost as if the song were written for the ailing man. She remembered Hobson crawling around in that bus, trying to find a deadly mamba, one of the most poisonous snakes on earth, before it could bite a student on a field trip. And the way he had begged her to help him find that missing child, even after having been accused of stealing the child himself. He definitely had a hunger. No, a need. A need to stop bad things from happening and, failing that, at least to make them come out better.   
  
Blest are they, who show mercy, mercy shall be theirs;  
Blest are they, the pure of heart, they shall see God!  
  
Clare recalled how angry the child's father had been when Gary had shown up with herself in tow. Her new friend would've been well within his rights to just walk away and leave the parents to their misery. Not Gary. No, he begged them to let him and Clare help, as if finding this child was at least as important to him as it was to the parents. He had actually begged! How much more merciful or pure could one heart get?  
  
Blest are they, who seek peace, they are the children of God;  
Blest are they, who suffer in faith, the glory of God is theirs!  
  
Well, Gary was certainly suffering, she told herself, glancing over at the feverish man. Strange. Earlier, he had been tossing fitfully, unable to get comfortable. Now he seemed to have settled down. In fact, he looked . . . peaceful.  
  
Blest are you, who suffer hate, all because of me;  
Rejoice and be glad, yours is the Kingdom, shine for all to see!  
  
As Clare watched, astonished, Hobson seemed to . . . glow was the only word she could think of. A soft, ethereal light appeared to emanate from every pore of his body. His harsh, labored breathing seemed to be easing up. The red blotches of frostbite that stood out on his pale features were nowhere near as prominent as they had been just minutes before. Perhaps it was a trick of the lighting. That's what it was, she decided. Ms. Clark had talked someone into shining a soft spotlight on Gary, making it look like the 'Revelation' scene on that TV show about angels.  
  
Marissa's voice rang out loud and clear as the choir joined in for the chorus:  
  
Rejoice and be glad, blessed are you, holy are you;  
Rejoice and be glad, yours is the Kingdom of God!  
  
Rejoice and be glad, blessed are you, holy are you;  
Rejoice and be glad, yours is the Kingdom of God!  
  
The glow around her friend had increased to almost blinding intensity as the young black woman's voice rang out through the hall. As the hymn neared its end, the light lowered until it once again seemed more within Gary than without. As the last note faded, so did the spectral illumination. Clare didn't know who was in charge of that spotlight, but he had a master's touch. As the auditorium echoed with thunderous applause, Clare crossed over to check on her friend. Gary no longer radiated heat like a small furnace and he seemed to have slipped into a peaceful doze. Instinctively, Clare reached out to stroke his cheek, amazed to see that he no longer showed any sign of the frostbite that had ravaged his features earlier. As her fingertips traced the line of his jaw, he opened mud-puddle green eyes to give her a questioning look.  
  
"Did I miss 'Rissa's song?" he mumbled in a voice that no longer sounded quite so husky as it had before. It was still a little raspy, but not as painfully hoarse as it had been when he first spoke to her earlier that evening.  
  
"You were awake when it started," Dr. Carter told him. "Then you just . . . drifted off. You must've found it very relaxing."  
  
"Guess I did," Gary murmured. "Feel better, anyway. Goin' back soon?"  
  
"To the hospital?" Lois asked. "As soon as these nice young men get you loaded up, sweetie. You do look better, though. Maybe this outing was good for you, after all."  
  
"You slept through the special effects," Clare smiled at him.  
  
Gary gave her another quizzical look. So did the others.  
  
"You didn't see it?" she asked. "The way they made that light seem to come from within Gary? How could you miss it? It was almost blinding near the end!"  
  
"I'm sorry, Clare," Bernie shrugged. "I didn't see any lights except the ones on stage. Are you sure you didn't imagine it?"  
  
"Perhaps it was the stage lights reflecting on all that ice," Clare murmured. 'In a pig's eye,' she thought. Something was very odd, here.  
  
Gary was sleeping soundly, once more, by the time he was loaded up in the ambulance. Clare politely refused Lois and Bernie's offer of a ride home, then bid them goodnight. As they followed the gurney out the door, Clare gathered up her things and prepared to leave. On her way out, she spotted the emcee. On impulse, she ambled over and began telling him how much she had enjoyed the program.  
  
"I was especially impressed by that lighting trick at the end," she told him. "The way you singled out that one man for special attention. It was awe inspiring!"  
  
"I'm sorry," the man told her, "but I don't know what you're talking about. We didn't use any lighting tricks tonight. Someone suggested it, but they were voted down. The only inspiration was supposed to come from the music."  
  
"And it was," Clare hastened to say. "Truly inspirational. I can't begin to tell you how moved I was." She made a few more complimentary remarks, then hurried on her way. She knew what she saw, and she was absolutely positive that she had seen Gary Hobson glowing like a light bulb!  
  
***************  
  
Dr. Carter stayed beside the stretcher as it was wheeled into Gary's room. It took only a matter of seconds to transfer the sleepily stirring man back to bed. Thanking the departing EMTs, he turned to re-examine his patient. Well, technically Dr. Bishop's patient, now. Still, John Carter felt a proprietary interest in this particular case.   
  
Strange, Gary's breathing seemed to have eased dramatically. Looking closer, Carter noticed that the sleeping man's face was no longer flushed with fever. Nor did the frostbite seem as extensive as it had earlier. He carefully unwound the bandages from Gary's hands. They, too, appeared to be healing well. Puzzled, he began checking Gary's vital signs. Blood pressure was good. Pulse was strong and steady. Temperature was . . . was normal! It was 103° less than thirty minutes ago! A few bags of ice couldn't have brought it down that fast!  
  
Carter sat back in the recliner, unable to take his eyes off the peacefully sleeping man. Enigma upon enigma. 'I should know by now,' he mused. 'Nothing about this man should surprise me anymore.' Maybe he needed to talk to that Clare woman again.  
  
  
*********************  
  
Gary awakened the next morning feeling much better than he had in weeks. His face wasn't burning and neither were his hands. Best of all, he found he could talk in an almost normal voice with very little discomfort. Lois and Bernie entered to find him sitting up in bed, his shaving gear laid out on the tray table next to a basin of warm water. The top of the table had been slid back to reveal a shaving mirror. He was just finishing up his attempts to get rid of almost a week's growth of stubble.  
  
"You still have a little lather right . . . here," Lois said. Gary held still as she wiped the foam off the left side of his jaw. "Much better. Wow! You really look good today! How do you feel?"  
  
"Pretty good." he replied huskily. "Dr. Bishop and Dr. Carter both think I can go home tomorrow, if all my tests come back normal. Have you talked to Marissa today?"  
  
"Um hmm," Lois nodded. "She had a few things to take care of at the bar, then she'll be over to see you herself." She pulled up a chair and sat down. "I can't get over how much better you look!"   
  
Gary couldn't suppress a tiny smile as his mother caressed his freshly shaven cheek. He was wondering when she would start the touching. Lois Hobson was a full-contact mom.   
  
"I feel fine, Mom," he told her. He averted his eyes, suddenly finding it hard to meet the love and joy that shone from her eyes. "Y-you know, I was just thinkin'. M-maybe that camp idea of Chuck's wasn't so bad. A little fresh air, sunshine . . . Wh-what could it hurt?" He risked a little sideways glance at his parents, almost afraid they were having second thoughts of their own.  
  
"Oh, thank you, God!" Bernie sighed. "Your mother was half afraid you'd decided not to go," he explained. "Chuck 'n' Jade are chompin' at the bit to get you out there. Seems they have an opening coming up in just a few days and they were hopin' to spend a little time with you before then." He pulled an envelope from his inside pocket. "Merry Christmas."  
  
Gary carefully opened the envelope to find a first class ticket to Los Angeles. It was for a flight leaving the next day. 'Wow', Gary thought. 'They must really want me out there!' After weeks of feeling like the lowest life form on earth, it was all Gary could do not to break down and cry.  
  
"And the insurance company finally came through on replacing your chair," Lois told him. "It's being delivered this afternoon. Oh! I almost forgot! Detective Winslow called. They caught those two men that mugged you. They were trying to use one of your credit cards this morning."  
  
"Th-that's good," Gary stammered, her mention of the blonde detective acting like a bucket of water to dampen his mood. No. Not Winslow, himself, but his partner. His last conversation with the fiery Italian still cut deeper than he liked to admit. No! He was not going to let one yesterday ruin the rest of his tomorrows, or even today. At least he now knew where he stood with her, so it was time to move on. "Tomorrow, huh?" he nodded, slapping the ticket against the palm of his other hand. "Th-that doesn't leave us much time. I'll get out of here just in time to go home and pack." He was already regretting the time he had lost coming back to Chicago. Precious time he could have spent with people he cared about, who also cared about him.  
  
"I know," Lois grinned. She fished a deck of cards out of her purse. "Plenty of time for a few hands of bridge, though. We need the practice for a tournament next week."  
  
***************  
  
"You sound so much better!" Marissa exclaimed. "Last night you sounded like sandpaper, today . . . today you sound like silk."  
  
"Feels more like burlap," Gary quipped, his voice still a little husky. "You were great last night. Sorry I fell asleep during that last song, though. Mom told me it was the best one in the whole show."  
  
"I don't even know why I decided to do that one," Marissa confessed. She was sitting in the chair beside his bed, his left hand clasped between both of hers. "To tell the truth, I don't think I've ever heard it before, myself. It . . . it just came to me, and I felt compelled to sing it. When I went on, it just seemed natural to dedicate it to you."  
  
"I think I remember that much," Gary sighed, "but the rest is kinda . . . hazy. Clare, that psychic I told you about, said she saw some . . . light, or something. I dunno. Things keep getting weirder and weirder."  
  
"Did you . . . did you feel anything . . . odd?" his friend asked.  
  
Gary ran his right hand through his hair as he tried to think back to the night before. "That's . . . that's kinda hard to say. I was so sick last night . . . I guess I shouldn't 've gone, but I needed to go. You know what I mean? I really needed to be there. A-and it was more than keeping a promise, as important as that is. I don't know how to . . . how to explain what I was feeling last night. Later, after they told me I fell asleep, I just felt . . . good. Real good."  
  
Marissa squeezed his hand and beamed a dazzling smile his way. "I'll take my miracles any way I can get them, Gary Hobson," she said. "And you've been one right after another."  
  
The door swung open, allowing Lois and Bernie to carry in a huge basket of bright orange lilies, and a spray of tiny white buds.  
  
"This was waiting at the front desk for you," Lois said. "No one saw the delivery boy, so we don't know who sent it. Isn't it beautiful? I wonder where they found pussy-willows and tiger lilies this time of year?"  
  
Gary looked over at the windowsill, where a smugly smiling cat was staring back at him, idly flicking its tail. "Yeah," he murmured. "I wonder."  
  
********************  
  
Gary stared out the window at the departing 747. It was so dark that, in just a short time, all he could see were the wing lights as the huge jetliner taxied into position. Slowly, it rolled ponderously down the runway, coming back into view as the nose wheel lifted from the tarmac. He watched as, like an ungainly bird, the bulky aircraft rose into the air, gradually growing smaller and smaller, until all he could see were the blinking wing lights.   
  
It had been a long time since he had last flown anywhere. Since before Marcia had kicked him out. Before the paper had entered his life. How would it be, now? For one thing, he was flying first class, instead of tourist. How would that differ from his previous experience? And the chair . . . He looked down at his new wheelchair. It was identical to his old one in every way, except for the color. It was dark brown, instead of black. How would they handle the chair? Would they transfer him to a regular seat and stow it somewhere, or did they have someway to fasten it down? Gary peeled back the protective patch that covered the face of his watch and checked the time. It was after eleven. His flight wasn't due to take off for another twenty-five minutes. It wasn't a direct flight. They had a long lay over in Denver, for some reason, then on to The Coast, as Chuck called it. Taken all together, he would arrive in Los Angeles sometime around 6 AM. He hoped Chuck liked getting up early.  
  
"You look nervous, hon," Lois Hobson said from behind him. "What's on your mind?"  
  
"This camp, for one thing," Gary admitted, still staring out the window. "They're gonna want me to learn a lot of new things, which is no big deal. But Chuck said they have counseling sessions. They'll want me to talk about . . . about my feelings. About fears and such, you know? I-I'm just not sure if I want to do that."  
  
From where she stood behind him, Lois bent down and wrapped her arms around her son, resting her chin on his right shoulder. "It'll be okay," she told him. "You can say pretty much whatever you want to these people. The odds of you seeing any of them again are pretty remote. What else is bothering you?"  
  
Gary craned his head until he could plant a kiss on his mother's cheek. "You're spooky," he told her, "you know that? I was just wondering if Chuck was really alright with . . . with this." He gestured at the chair. "I mean, he says he's okay, but . . . well, Chuck is . . . Chuck."  
  
"He's also one of your best friends," Lois reminded him. "If he isn't okay with it, it won't take him long to tell you. Then the two of you will work it out. Like always. Anything else?"  
  
"Yeah," Gary smiled, looking ahead and pulling her arms around him a little tighter. "I hope they can bolt this chair to the floor. One patch of turbulence and I could put a dent in their nice, shiny bulkheads."  
  
The loudspeakers announced Gary's flight, saying that passengers with special needs would be loading first.  
  
"That's me," Gary sighed. He looked over to where his dad was approaching with Marissa. She had one hand on his elbow, and the other on Riley's harness. Bernie was trying to balance three cups of coffee, and one of hot cocoa. With marshmallows.   
  
"Sorry it took so long," Bernie sighed. "You would not believe the line for coffee this time of night. Here you go, kiddo." He handed the cocoa to Gary. For some strange reason, Gary had been craving the chocolaty drink lately. "Didn't we just hear them call your flight?"  
  
"Yeah," Gary replied, sipping at his cocoa. "I'm just about to board. You guys gonna be alright . . . with the paper, I mean."  
  
"We can handle it, son," Lois promised him, giving her son one more squeeze before letting him go. "You just give Chuck and Jade our love, and kiss the twins for me."  
  
"And tell Chucko that he better not be a stranger," Bernie said. "Those kids are practically family."  
  
"If you run into Denzel Washington," Marissa teased him, "you'd better give him my number!" She let go of Bernie and Riley long enough to give her friend a big hug. "And come back safe, you hear me?"  
  
"I'll do my best," Gary promised. He handed his cup to his mom as he spotted a flight attendant headed their way.  
  
"We need to get you settled, Mr. Hobson," she said with a smile. "If you'll allow me?" She circled around behind her charge and grasped the chair handles.  
  
"Sure," Gary sighed. He hated other people taking control of his chair, but he had to admit that, sometimes, it was necessary. He turned to wave one last time to his folks. "I'll call you in the morning," he promised.  
  
****************  
  
The flight attendant wheeled Gary into the first class lounge.  
  
"Are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable down with the other passengers?" she asked.  
  
"Positive," Gary replied with a tiny smile that almost touched his eyes. "I'm really tired, and wouldn't be good company. Is there someplace I can stretch out?"  
  
"Of course, sir," she told him. "I can help you onto the sofa, but you'll have to remain upright until we're airborne. Regulations," she said by way of apology.  
  
"No problem," he grinned. "Just wake me up before we land. Oh! And you might want to warn the other passengers that I snore. And pretty loud, too, according to my friends."  
  
The flight attendant, who's nametag identified her as Cindy, returned his smile and promised that anyone else who might wander up there would be duly warned.  
  
Later, when the flight was well underway, Cindy was talking with another attendant about the 'problem' passenger she had been assigned to.   
  
"I don't know what they were so worried about," she was saying. "He's been no trouble at all. In fact, he's one of the nicest people I've ever met. Hasn't asked for anything but a blanket and an extra pillow."  
  
"Oh, that wasn't what they were warning us about," the other woman responded with a smile. "Captain Bailey said this is the man who saved his daughter. Stayed with her right through surgery, then disappeared before they could thank him. I don't remember how the captain said they finally found out who he was, but he's earned special treatment."  
  
*****************  
  
Gary stirred fitfully as he dreamed, once more, of being trapped in rising snow. He couldn't move, couldn't . . . couldn't breathe! With a strangled gasp, his eyes snapped open and he struggled to sit up. 'God!' he thought. 'What is it with snow, all of a sudden?' Seemed as if most of his dreams, lately, revolved around the frozen precipitation.   
  
"Mrrrrr!"  
  
Oh, no! He looked down at the familiar orange shape draped across his legs. A copy of tomorrow's Sun-Times lay in his lap.  
  
"How did . . .? Never mind," he murmured. "I don't even want to think about how you got up here. I'm in a jet liner, for cryin' out loud! You think I can fly this thing, or something?"  
  
"Mrr-rr-rr!"  
  
"Alright, already! Sheesh!" Gary snatched up the Paper, grumbling something about bossy felines. 'Freak Snow Storm Downs Flight! No Survivors!' the headline read. Alarmed, Gary scanned the article. A sudden, unpredicted blizzard hit Denver Airport just minutes before a plane inbound from Chicago was due to set down. Visibility was quickly reduced from 500 feet to zero, forcing the airport to turn away all flights. The inbound flight from Chicago, however, had already dumped its remaining fuel in preparation for a possible crash landing due to a landing gear malfunction, leaving them no such option. The poor visibility resulted in the plane overshooting the runway. There were no survivors.  
  
Gary hit the call button. As good as her word, Cindy appeared within a few minutes.   
  
"I need to see the captain," he insisted. "Please! It's urgent!"  
  
"Are you ill, Mr. Hobson?" the young flight attendant asked in obvious concern.  
  
"N-no. Nothing like that," he assured her. "Just tell the captain I need to see him. Now, please! It's a matter of life and death!" 'Ours,' he added to himself.  
  
A few minutes later, Gary was relieved to see Amanda's father enter the lounge.  
  
"Cindy said it was urgent," the pilot commented after greeting his daughter's friend. He noticed the orange tabby curled up in Gary's lap. The young man was stroking the cat in a distracted manner. "Nice cat. Is it yours?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh, um, sorta. But, this really is urgent," Gary told him. "We have to change our flight plan. Denver . . . W-we won't be able to land there."  
  
Captain Bailey eyed his passenger strangely. He gingerly lowered himself onto the coffee table facing the sofa that Gary had been stretched out on just moments before. The pilot studied the man before him, taking in his pale features and nervous gestures. Hobson seemed genuinely apprehensive. No, frightened. The man was scared to death and trying hard not to show it.  
  
"I need something more to go on than that," the pilot told him. "Why can't we land at Denver?"  
  
"Be-because a warm air mass from the southeast is going to hit a . . . a cold front from the northwest," was Gary's quick reply. "The warm air is full of . . . of moisture. When it hits that cold front right over Denver, visibility is . . . .is gonna drop . . . like a rock. And it'll happen just minutes before you dump your fuel. By the time you make your approach, you . . . you won't be able to see the runway lights."  
  
"And you know this . . . how?" Captain Bailey asked skeptically. "And how do you know that we might need to dump our fuel?"  
  
"The same way I knew Amanda needed surgery," Gary replied in hushed tones. "The . . . the same way I knew she'd . . . she'd die if I didn't do something."  
  
That got his attention! Captain Bailey sat back, his assessing gaze locked with Gary's pleading one. He saw no deceit in those muddy green eyes, only an earnest desire . . . no, a need to be believed.   
  
"We're less than twenty minutes out of Denver," he finally said, rising from his seat. "I'll have the tower contact the weather service. If they confirm your . . . analysis, we'll alter our destination."  
  
"If they don't?"  
  
"Then I have to proceed as planned," the pilot told him as he headed for the door. "I'm sorry, Gary. That's the best I can promise at this point."  
  
As the senior pilot passed close to his nervous passenger, Gary reached out a hand in supplication.   
  
"Please," he begged in a near whisper. "Don't dump your fuel. Not until you absolutely have to. Please."  
  
"No promises, but I'll hold off as long as I can. Now, you promise me something. Don't go spreading this around. I don't want my crew, or the other passengers alarmed needlessly."  
  
Gary sat back with a soul weary sigh. "Why do you think I asked for you to come here?" He nodded at the empty chair. "Because of that? Trust me, I don't want a panic anymore than you do, but I'm not ready to die, either. Not anymore."  
  
*************  
  
"Call the tower," Captain Bailey told his engineer as he resumed his seat. "I want the very latest weather report. Preferably one that's less than an hour old."  
  
"No problem," the younger man grinned. "Planning to get in a little R&R?"  
  
"No," Bailey replied, no humor in his voice. "I need to know if they're tracking a warm front from the south."  
  
The engineer exchanged a startled look with the copilot before turning back to his captain. "How'd you know about that? They just called it in less than a minute ago. It's slow moving, though, and shouldn't be a problem." He looked at his map. "In fact, it's not due to hit that cold front until it's somewhere in the vicinity of Boulder. Why?"  
  
"No reason," Bailey shrugged. No need to say anything. Hobson was probably just having a case of the jitters. Understandable considering all he had been through this past year. Still, he had known about Amanda . . . "Just in case we need to divert," he cautioned, "let's go over alternative landing sites."  
  
Puzzled the engineer checked his maps. "The next nearest, other than Boulder," he finally said, "is near Colorado Springs. Their Municipal Airport can handle us."  
  
Captain Bailey glanced at the chronometer. That tail wind coming out of Minneapolis had put them almost fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. It wouldn't hurt to throttle back . . . just a little.  
  
*****************  
  
Gary couldn't keep his eyes off the Paper. No matter how badly he wanted to lay it aside, ignore it, his eyes kept drifting to that damning headline. From what Bailey had told him earlier, they should be making their approach any minute. 'Please,' he prayed. 'Please let him listen. Don't let all these people die because I wasn't convincing enough! Please!'  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen," a familiar voice said over the PA. "This is your captain speaking. We have just been advised that Denver is under severe weather conditions. Our destination has been altered to Colorado Springs Municipal Airport. For those of you with connecting flights, there will be personnel on hand to help you make arrangements. Thank you."  
  
Leaning back with a relieved sigh, Gary once more glanced at the headline. 'What?' He snapped erect once more. 'That can't be! We changed . . .'   
  
Rerouted Flight Downed By Freak Accident. Gary quickly read the new article. According to the Paper, an energy surge out of the nearby Cheyenne Mountain Complex would knock out power to Colorado Springs, the airport, and Peterson Air Force Base. As a result, the inbound passenger plane would collide with a military transport carrying munitions. Again, no survivors.  
  
Cheyenne Mountain. Why was that name so . . . Jackson and O'Neill! That was the place where that . . . Ah, man! Was he going to get mixed up with that again? Gary hit the call button.   
  
"I need to see the captain," he said when Cindy appeared. "Now."  
  
*****************  
  
The young barkeep was still sitting upright on the sofa, once again facing a skeptical Captain Bailey.  
  
"You have to patch me through!" Gary insisted. "Trust me on this! If I don't talk to someone in that mountain in the next few minutes, they're gonna blackout an area of over a hundred square miles! Including the airport and the airbase! It's gonna knock out backups and everything!"  
  
"This is a top flight, military facility, Hobson," the captain sighed. "It's not like calling 911. You have to have some kind access code or password just to get past the switchboard."  
  
"You just get me through to the switchboard," Gary told him. "Then leave the rest to me."  
  
Bailey rubbed his hand over his face in frustration. What did it take to get through to this guy?  
  
"Why did you divert the flight?" Gary asked suddenly. Bailey just stared at him as understanding sank in. "I was right about that and I'm right about this," Gary told him. "Trust me."  
  
A few minutes later, Gary was talking to Cheyenne Mountain.  
  
"I need to speak to General George Hammond," he was saying. "Yes, I know what time it is! And it's running out! My access code is . . . is Gamma Hydra nine one seven six five. Password? Um, Roller Coaster. Thank you!" He drummed his fingers nervously as he waited for the call to be put through.   
  
Off to one side, Bailey listened in amazement. Just who was this man his little girl was so taken with? And what was he into that required he be acquainted with high ranking military officers?  
  
"General! Thank God! This is . . . You remember . . . ? That's . . . No, this isn't a secure line," Gary sighed. He ran his free hand through his hair nervously as he listened to the man on the other end of the line. "Yes. I do know what time it is! Please, listen to me! Are you doing anything with . . . with the, um, that 'thing' tonight? Yes. That . . . that thing I, um, rode last year. Don't do it. No. Don't even send a . . . Don't send anything. No, don't do that, either. It's bad. Really bad. No, I don't know how . . . Just trust me. If you . . . proceed, there's gonna be a power surge that'll knock out power for more than a hundred square miles, causing two planes to collide, with no survivors, and a lot of other people will be injured by the debris. Where . . .? I'm . . . well, I'm calling from one of them." Gary listened for a moment, then sat back with a relieved sigh. "Thank you," he said, casting a furtive glance at the new headline. "Wh-what? But I have this friend meeting . . ." The next sigh was one of resignation. "Yes, sir. I'll be . . . No. I haven't . . . I won't . . ." Gary glanced at his watch, then looked to the captain. "How long before we land?"  
  
"Thirty minutes," Captain Bailey assured him.   
  
"Thirty minutes," Gary relayed to the general. "Yessir. Just make sure it has a ramp. That's right. A ramp. You're a smart fella, General Hammond," he replied with an ironic little smile. "I'm sure you'll figure it out. See you then." He pushed the disconnect button and handed the phone back to the pilot. "Everything 'll be okay, now," he said. "The general wants to see me, though. Something tells me I'm not going to make my connection. Oh, um, would you do me one more favor, before we get there?"  
  
"Sure," Captain Bailey sighed. "Why not?"  
  
"Is there anyway to check out the landing gear before we get there?"   
  
*****************  
  
Less than ten minutes after his flight touched down, safely, Gary was whisked aboard an Air Force transport copter and flown to a helipad just outside the Cheyenne Mountain Complex. An olive drab sedan was waiting to drive him the rest of the way to the Complex. Two familiar figures stepped out of the darkness as Gary was propelled forward by an airman, the orange tabby curled in his lap. The taller of the two men, Jack O'Neill, was dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans topped by a brown leather flight jacket. His salt and pepper hair was covered only with an olive-drab baseball cap. The other man, Daniel Jackson, was slighter of build and had short, dark blonde hair and glasses, but his attire was similar to that worn by his companion. Both wore equally stunned expressions.  
  
"The first one that says 'sorry'," Gary quipped, "in any context, is gonna get run over. And I mean that!"  
  
"What the hell happened to you?" the older man asked incredulously.   
  
"Changing a light bulb at the head of my stairs," Gary shrugged. "The stepstool slipped, the wires ripped, zap, POW and now . . ." he held both hands out in an expressive gesture. "The new and not so improved Gary Hobson, at your service," he added dryly. "How've you been, O'Neill? Dr. Jackson. You guys still riding that what'zit to wherever?"  
  
"Two or three times a week," the older man shrugged, pulling a hand out of his pocket to shake Gary's. "See you still have the fur ball. How does this affect your roller coaster?" he asked, indicating the chair.  
  
"Makes it a little more . . . challenging," Gary admitted. "Look, guys, it's been a long night and I've got a friend who'll be waiting for me at LAX in a few hours. Can we get this show on the road?"  
  
"Oh, sure," Daniel Jackson responded as he jerked his eyes away from the chair. This was, after all, still the same man who had saved his and Jack's life last year. Not just once, either. "Do you need any help?"  
  
"Just for leverage," Gary shrugged. "If you can hold the chair steady, I can manage the rest."  
  
They soon had him situated in the back seat and his chair stowed in the trunk. O'Neill slid into the front seat with the driver, while Jackson shared the back with Gary.   
  
"So!" O'Neill sighed loudly. "You heard anything from that other guy? What was his name? Foster. Cade Foster."  
  
"A card now and then," Gary shrugged. "Or an e-mail from that friend of his. Shocked the crap out of me when I saw that special on him and . . . well. In his case, truth really is stranger than fiction."  
  
"You should talk," Jackson murmured.  
  
"Like wise," Gary retorted with a wry grin. "Face it, guys. None of us leads anything close to a normal life. Don't you wonder, sometimes, what it would be like? To come home to all the 'family' things everyone else takes for granted? A wife, kids, watching them grow up. PTA, Little League, their first crush. All that. Don't you just . . . just wish . . .?"  
  
"Almost every day," Daniel and Jack sighed in unison.  
  
"So, how are the Bulls looking for tonight's game?" O'Neill asked, trying to lighten the mood. "How much should I bet?"  
  
Gary stole a glance at the sports section and winced. "Save your money."  
  
*****************  
  
General Hammond was better at hiding his shock than either Jackson or O'Neill. His only visible reaction as Gary was wheeled into the briefing room was a slightly straighter stance, and a resigned sigh.  
  
"That explains the ramp," was his only verbal comment on the subject. "I'll not waste your time on platitudes, Mr. Hobson," he continued. "The reason you're here is, I have to explain to my superiors how a man flying 30,000 feet in the air was able to predict that a planet over 35,000 light years away was being subjected to an electromagnetic storm of global proportions."  
  
"S'cuse me?" Gary leaned forward in his chair. "Is that what was happening? How did you find out? I mean without opening the 'Gate?"  
  
"We sent a team through to an alternative site," Major Samantha Carter replied as she stepped through the door. Her eyes were glued to a sheaf of papers as she spoke. "Hi, Mr. Hob . . .son. Oh."  
  
Gary looked at the general with a shrug. "I've been getting that a lot, lately."  
  
"I'll just bet you have," the officer grinned. At least the young man had kept his sense of humor intact. Although it couldn't have been easy. "Anyway, we sent a probe through from that other site, and it was fried instantly. Sent a surge through the 'Gate that knocked everyone off their feet and destroyed the monitoring equipment."  
  
"If we had proceeded according to protocol," Major Carter added, quickly averting her eyes from that chair, "your prediction would have come true."  
  
"And I'd be dead," Gary murmured with a barely suppressed shudder. 'Again.' "So, what else can I help you with?"  
  
"You can tell us how you knew," Major Carter replied. "You were on route to Denver, until the weather diverted your flight. I checked with the pilot. He said you had warned him of a blizzard even the National Weather Service didn't see coming. Then you warned him of the impending blackout, without revealing anything about the Stargate."  
  
"Thank you for that, by the way," Hammond told him.  
  
"Your welcome," Gary responded politely. "But you know I can't tell you how I knew. We went all over that last time. I don't need a bunch of bureaucrats breathing down my neck, telling me who to save and who to let die. I just can't play that game."  
  
"Isn't it . . . well, harder now?" Daniel wondered aloud. "I mean, how do you get to a rooftop to stop someone from jumping? Or pull someone from a fire?"  
  
"Pray for a freight elevator," Gary quipped. "And burn rubber. Seriously, I do have people helping me. Although only a few of them know where I get my information. The rest take it on faith."  
  
The door swung open at that moment to admit a tiny redhead and a huge black man with a curious golden emblem embedded in his forehead. Gary's eyes widened at the sight. 'That must've hurt!'  
  
"Sorry to intrude, General," the tiny woman apologized. "But Teal'c just told me that . . .oh, my God! What happened?"  
  
"I get that a lot, too," Gary sighed. "Nice to see you, Doc. Who's your friend?"  
  
"What? Oh, um, Teal'c, Gary Hobson. Gary, Teal'c. From the planet Chulak," Dr. Janet Fraiser said by way of hurried introduction.   
  
"Nice to meet you," Gary said, shaking Teal'c's hand. Gary rubbed his forehead, unable to take his eyes off that golden symbol. "That looks . . . painful."  
  
"It was," Teal'c intoned.  
  
"Very, I'm sure," Janet remarked. "Now, give. What happened?"  
  
Gary was getting ready to give his abbreviated version when the general spoke up.  
  
"That can wait for later," the commanding officer cut in. "Right now, we need to get our stories straight." He turned to Gary. "I can understand your reluctance to open yourself up to any kind of government scrutiny, but I have to have something to tell those same pettifogging pencil pushers! Throw me a bone of some kind!"  
  
Gary drummed his fingers on his knee as he stared at the small group of people arrayed about the room. Behind General Hammond was a large plate glass window. From his current position, Gary couldn't see below the level of the sill, but he was well aware of what lay beyond. Just a little over a year before, he was kidnapped and brought to this very facility by agents of an alien race that called itself the Gua. As part of a proposed treaty with another entity called Apophis, he was snuck into the base, and flung through the rippling vortex created by a large stone circle known as the Stargate. It had not been a fun ride.  
  
"Is that golden clown still ticked at me?" he asked suddenly.  
  
"Well," Daniel murmured with a tiny grin, "he's got a bounty on your head that's equal to mine, if that tells you anything."  
  
"Really? How much?"  
  
"I don't know, exactly," the young archaeologist shrugged. "But I've been assured it's a lot more than a day's rations."  
  
Gary shot Daniel a puzzled look, then turning back to the general, he said, "All I can tell you, sir, is that I wake up each morning knowing what's gonna happen that day. That gives me less than twenty-four hours to change what needs changing. Sometimes a lot less. Most of the time, everything works out. Most of the time."  
  
"So how did this happen?" O'Neill asked, waving a hand in the general direction of Gary's chair. "Didn't you get any kind of warning?"  
  
"Not a bit," Gary replied ruefully, with a shake of his head. "Best I can figure, I wasn't supposed to."  
  
"Well, that sucks!" O'Neill commented.  
  
"General," Dr. Fraiser spoke up, "I'd like to do a full work up on Mr. Hobson. Maybe we can help him in some way."  
  
"No, please," Gary quickly told her. "Look, I appreciate the offer, and I do want to walk again. God, do I want to walk! But, anything you do I have to explain. I've been like this for six months, now. A few more months isn't gonna kill me."  
  
"Are you sure you will get out of that chair so soon?" Janet asked in concern.  
  
"Not really," Gary shrugged, "but there's no reason why I can't. The damage to my spine is healed. My legs just haven't got the message yet."  
  
"Then why not let me do a few tests?" the doctor persisted. "Maybe we can find something your own doctor can use."  
  
Gary rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully. A glance at the general just got him a slow nod of approval. Still hesitant, Gary looked down at the cat curled in his lap. It just looked back at him and purred. No objections there, apparently.  
  
"Can you do what you want and still get me to LAX by six?" he asked. "My friend'll have a fit if he has to pay an extra hour for parking."  
  
*****************  
  
Two hours later, Gary was leaving the 'medical wing' with Dr. Fraiser when the klaxons started echoing throughout the base.  
  
"What the heck is that?" Gary asked, looking around in alarm. "Are we under attack?"   
  
Dr. Fraiser paused before answering.   
  
"Incoming wormhole," a disembodied voice announced. Seconds later, "Signal confirmed. It's SG6."  
  
Janet smiled as she turned to her temporary patient. "That's the team we sent to the alternate site," she told him. "As you know, Stargate travel is pretty much one-way. Radio signals can go both ways but nothing else can. When we didn't get a signal right away, we sent another probe through. That's when they told us what had happened. Unfortunately, that surge also knocked out power to their 'Gate. So we sent through . . ."  
  
"Never mind," Gary sighed. "That's more than I need to know." They continued on to the elevators, returning to the floor containing the briefing room. As they exited the conveyance, Gary thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head slowly until he was looking down the corridor that led to the 'Gate room. "Um, those fellas in the snake armor," he mused aloud. "You don't usually have a couple of 'em wandering around loose, do you?"  
  
"Serpent Warriors?" Janet snorted. "I should hope not!"  
  
"Th-then I think you'd better sound another alarm," Gary stammered, slowly backing up. "Cause there's two of 'em comin' down the hall."  
  
Puzzled, Janet peered intently down the long corridor. It was brightly lit, allowing her to see all the way to the next corner. To her eyes, it appeared empty.   
  
"That's nothing to joke about, Gary," she scolded.   
  
"I'm not joking!" Gary hissed. "Two guys in snake armor, carrying those funny looking poles with the thingies on the end. The kind that blow holes in people? Can't you see them? They're less than ten feet away!"   
  
Janet was beginning to wonder if she should have run a brain scan on him, when the cat that had remained by his side since he arrived gave out a low, rumbling growl. Glaring daggers in the same direction that Gary was staring, it lay its ears back and let loose with a hiss that left no room for doubt. There was something there! She lunged for the alarm, slapping it a split second before an energy bolt crackled through the spot she had just vacated. "Run!" she yelled as the klaxons once more sounded through the complex.  
  
"I'm delusional, and the cat you believe?" Gary grumbled as he raced alongside the fleeing physician. The aforementioned feline had already disappeared around the distant corner.  
  
"I'll apologize later," Fraiser snapped. "Move it!" Another blast gave additional urgency to her order.  
  
They rounded the next corner, almost running over Major Carter and Daniel Jackson. Daniel was armed with an odd device shaped roughly like the letter Z. Carter was holding a wicked looking cannon with the biggest laser site Gary had ever seen.   
  
Unarmed, Gary and the doctor ducked behind the two that were armed. Gary couldn't see that the laser site on Carter's weapon was going to be all that helpful. Instead of an intense red beam, it was more diffuse, like the beam from a flashlight. As it played over the two armored aliens, Gary seemed to see them more clearly, as if they were being brought into focus. As soon as they were fixed in the beam, Carter and Jackson both fired. A bolt of energy crackled from Daniel's weapon, cascading over one of the intruders. He fell to the floor, twitching spasmodically.   
  
The blast from Major Carter's weapon was much more lethal. It tore through the other warrior like a hot knife through butter.   
  
Gary sat back in his chair, stunned and sickened by the sudden violence. In his mind, he knew it had been necessary, that those two had been bent on destruction. Still . . . His musings were cut short by a low, throaty growl. Startled, he turned just in time to see a pair of huge, armored hands reaching for him. With a panicked cry, he tried to dodge the grasping appendages, but had no room left to maneuver. The hands grabbed the front of his jacket and Gary was hauled from his chair with no more effort than if he had been a small child. He found himself slung over a broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes as the big Jaffa turned and headed back for the 'Gate room at a dead run.  
  
To everyone else, it appeared that Gary was flying through the air backwards, with his derriere pointed at the ceiling. A position that Gary did not find at all amusing. He tried beating on the broad back with both fists clasped together, to little effect. He tried pulling at various catches, to no avail. Finally, Gary hit on one that retracted the headpiece back into the collar. What he saw was a dark skinned man of middle years, with a black tattoo similar to Teal'c's. What he did was to twist around until he could clamp his teeth onto the warrior's ear.   
  
With a scream of pain and rage, the huge alien flung Gary as far as he could. Gary slammed into a wall less than ten feet away. Stunned, he slid to the floor as his assailant stalked toward him. The expression on his dark features boded ill for the hapless young man. Unable to escape, Gary could only lie there and wait for the next round. With a look of pure hatred, the alien reached down and grasped Gary's jacket.  
  
The air around them both crackled with energy as pain ran up and down every nerve in Gary's body! Even his desensitized legs were not immune to some discomfort from the fire that coursed through his body! A brief burst of sound, and the writhing figure next to him fell still. Gary found himself wishing they would extend the same mercy to him. Gradually, the fire in his veins subsided to dull embers and Gary found that he could breathe again.  
  
"Good God!" he gasped as anxious hands lifted him onto a stretcher. "What the hell was that?" He opened his eyes to see O'Neill grinning down at him, one of the oddly shaped pistols, like the one Daniel had been carrying, dangling loosely from one hand.  
  
"This li'l ol' thing?" the officer smirked. "We call it a zatgun. One shot knocks 'em down. Two knocks 'em dead. The third is for clean-up."  
  
"I don't even want to know what that last remark meant," Gary mumbled with a shudder. "Just, please, don't ever do that again!"  
  
"Funny, that's what Danny said."  
  
*****************  
  
"No residual damage from the zatgun," Fraiser reported, after giving Gary another, even more thorough, 'going over.' "Although your back is going to be one solid bruise. How do you feel?"  
  
"Like my whole body is gonna be one solid bruise," Gary sighed. With the doctor's help, he sat up and pulled his chair closer. "Can't I just stop by and say 'Hi' once in a while without you guys laying out these little surprises? What ever happened to sitting down to a nice cup of coffee and some quiet conversation?" He levered himself into the familiar conveyance with a sigh of relief.  
  
"You came to the wrong place for that, my friend," Janet laughed. "What I can't figure is, why you were able to see those Jaffa, and we couldn't! They had a cloaking device we've run into before, and thought we were prepared against. But, none of the alarms were tripped when they arrived."  
  
Gary squirmed uncomfortably as he considered his own theory. "Have you ever seen that movie with Bruce Willis and that Osment kid? The one that could see dead people?"  
  
"The Sixth Sense? Sure," Janet shrugged. "Loved it. Why?"  
  
"Well, once in a while, I've . . . I mean, a couple of times . . . I have, too," Gary finished with a rush. "J-just a few times, mind you. Nothing as weird as that kid was doing. A-and once they had what they came for, they were gone. Although one keeps coming back," he murmured under his breath, thinking of the specter of Lucius Snow. "I think it has to do with this . . . whatever it is that lets me know what's gonna happen each day. Does that make any sense?"  
  
"Actually," the tiny physician mused, "it does. We know from his reaction that your cat also saw the intruders. And I do apologize for doubting you. That was so . . . but you have to admit, it was so . . . out of the blue. I should know better than to dismiss anything odd around here."  
  
"Even me?" Gary grinned as he headed for the door.  
  
"You? Why, Mr. Hobson," she teased, "for this place, you're absolutely normal. Now, let's see about getting you a ride to Los Angeles. We don't want to keep your friend waiting."  
  
*****************  
  
"Hey, Gar! Buddy! Pal! Long time no see!" Chuck could be heard all along the concourse as he greeted his friend. "Man, it is great to see ya! Did you have a good flight? What was all that with the changes and delays 'n' such? You hungry? I can have Jade drop the kids off at the sitter's, then she can meet us for breakfast, if you like."  
  
"It's good to see you, too, Chuck," Gary replied with a sleepy grin. "The flight was . . . okay, but I'm really tired. Could we take a rain check on breakfast? I'd rather get a little shuteye, if you don't mind." He mentally added a hot bath to his list of things to do. Dr. Fraiser was right. He was sore all over.   
  
"Hey! No problemo, compadre," Chuck grinned. "She'd kill me for getting her up this early, anyway." He took a good look at his best friend. "From what your dad told me, I expected to see a lot more damage. I can't tell you ever had frostbite. And he told me your heart stopped. Again. What's up with that? You trying for 'frequent dying miles' or something?"  
  
During this discourse, Gary was looking around nervously, making urgent shushing motions with his hands.  
  
"Could you keep it down?" he hissed. "It's not exactly something I want the whole world to know about! Please! I just want to go somewhere and sleep for a few hours."  
  
"Your wish, and all that," Chuck shrugged. "Don't sleep all day, though. We only have three days before I'm supposed to take you up to the camp. Jade and I don't want to waste a minute!"  
  
Gary followed his friend to the baggage carousel as they spoke. Looking up at the monitor, he noted the time. It was just a few minutes past six.  
  
"How long will it take us to get to your place?" he sighed.  
  
"Less than an hour," Chuck told him. "We've got this little place right on the beach. It's great. We got it cheap 'cause some guy got 'offed' there. One of our neighbors is a doctor and his son. A police detective. He's been mixed up in some weird stuff, murders and everything. You've gotta meet them. Mark and Steve Sloan. Great guys. They're coming over for dinner tonight."  
  
"Tonight?" Gary winced as he snagged his solitary suitcase. "Why tonight?" The pet carrier with the cat was next. The moment Gary grabbed the case, he set the cat free. The orange tabby immediately curled up in his lap and went to sleep.   
  
"Cause I promised Jade I'd introduce you to a cousin of hers." Chuck at least had the good grace to look repentant. "And Steve is single, too. Just covering all my bases, Gar," he added, hands up in a 'warding off trouble' gesture. "Wait 'til you meet Dr. Sloan, though. He's a riot."  
  
"Chuck," Gary responded with a weary sigh, "I've just gotten out of the hospital for the third time in less than a year. Four, if you count that ER visit when I was mugged. The last person I want to meet, right now, is another doctor. Couldn't you drop me at a motel, or something and just tell everyone I died?"  
  
Chuck grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and headed for the entrance. "Sorry, Gar," he replied with a grin. "In your case, that's no excuse."  
  
*******************   
  
"Jade has told me so little about you, Gary," the pretty blonde was saying. "Just that you live in Chicago and run a bar. There has to be more to you than that!"  
  
Gary just shrugged as he toyed with his dinner. "That pretty much covers it," he replied with a shy grin, just glancing up briefly before turning his attention back to chasing down a wayward morsel of potato. "That and my therapy," he amended. 'And the cat,' he silently added. 'That cat takes up a lot of time.' "I also get out, occasionally. There's a park right on the lake I like to go to when the weather's nice. Th-that pretty much sums it up. What about you, Crystal?"  
  
"I'm trying to break into acting," Jade's cousin smiled. Gary couldn't help noticing that she had a lovely smile. "Chuck has promised to introduce me to a few people while I'm here. Have you ever considered acting? You certainly have the looks for it."  
  
Gary suddenly found himself very interested in that potato. "Just a little amateur theater once," he mumbled, as a slow flush crept up to his hairline. God! Were his ears red, too?   
  
"Chuck tells us you're quite the hero," Dr. Sloan spoke up, taking a sip of his wine.   
  
Gary looked up at his friend in alarm. "H-he said what?"   
  
"I was telling them about you going in after that kid on the pier," Chuck was quick to assure his friend. "How you kept him afloat until help could arrive."  
  
"Chu-uck!"  
  
"Well, you almost died, Gar!" his friend snorted. "Don't you think a little crowing is in order?"  
  
Flustered, Gary was at a loss for words. At least Chuck hadn't spilled anything that couldn't be explained. Or had he? Just how much had his friend divulged to the Sloans?  
  
"C-couldn't let him drown," he finally mumbled, head bowed to hide another blush. "J-just trying to do the right thing. Um, Chuck tells me you're a police consultant, Dr. Sloan. Forensics?"  
  
"You're familiar with the field?" Dr. Sloan asked, amused at how quickly the young man acted to divert attention from himself. He launched into a lengthy, if not overly detailed, recount of one of his most recent cases. He tried to draw Gary out, finding himself curious about this secretive, and tragic, young man. Gary proved adept at turning the conversation onto any subject other than himself. The elderly physician was also impressed by Gary's knowledge of forensics.   
  
"You seem to be well informed in such a specialized field, for a bartender," Steve commented dryly.  
  
"I, um, I've had reason to look into it," Gary shrugged. "O-on occasion." God! Did every topic have to end up with a third degree? Or was it just his overly taut nerves that made it seem that way? "I have this. . . this friend back home," he stammered nervously. "He's a retired cop. Marion Crumb. He, um, he tends bar for me sometimes. Zeke, th-that's what he likes to be called, um, he got me interested in . . . in forensics and police work." 'That and being dragged in for questioning umpteen dozen times,' Gary thought to himself.  
  
"Don't be so modest, Gary," Jade grinned. "You never did tell me how you came to be the one delivering twins in an elevator, while my husband was passed out in the corner."  
  
"Twins!" Mark Sloan repeated with a smile. "That must've been quite an experience!"  
  
"I-it was just one of those 'right time, right place' kinda things," Gary stammered. "Chuck has this thing about, well, body fluids. So, when I heard he was trapped in an elevator, with a woman in labor, it . . . it just seemed the right thing to do."  
  
"Tell me about what happened last Halloween," Crystal urged. "Jade told me you were the one who killed that escaped fugitive. The one that broke into your home and tried to kill you. She said you were incredibly brave!"  
  
Both Dr. Sloan and his son perked up at that. Chuck and Jade looked at the young actress-wannabe as if they would cheerfully strangle her on the spot. Gary had turned as white as a sheet.  
  
"Really!" Dr. Sloan mused. "A home invasion?"  
  
"S-something like that," Gary murmured, finding he was no longer hungry. "Could you excuse me, please? It's . . . It's been a long day, and I think I could use some fresh air." He backed away from the table and headed quickly for the deck.  
  
As soon as he was out of earshot, Jade turned on her cousin.  
  
"I only told you that because you recalled seeing the article in the paper," she hissed through clenched teeth.   
  
"I just asked if he was the same . . ." Crystal tried to defend herself.  
  
"And I asked you not to bring it up!" Jade reminded her. "You have no idea what Gary's been through since his accident. And, of all the things you could've talked about, you had to pick the one topic that almost pushed him over the edge!"  
  
"It was that traumatic?" Dr. Sloan asked with concern.   
  
"It was," Chuck told them in rigid tones. He cast Crystal a withering look. "He was trapped under that bastard's body for hours. He was paralyzed, wounded, and cuffed to his wheelchair. It took hours of reconstructive surgery to save his left hand, and he had a bullet wound in his right shoulder. When he went into the water to save that kid, he still had no feeling in that left hand, at all. And he almost drowned, himself. Then his heart stopped. The doctors said it was because his body was so cold from the water. That enough detail for you, Crystal? Or do you want to hear about how depressed he was for weeks after it happened because he felt he deserved what was happening to him? Deserved it for killing that . . . It took every one of us to finally convince him that his finger had never been on the damned trigger. If that's not enough, how about the flashbacks and the nightmares? How about not being able to sleep in your own bed because of seeing that sick . . .?"  
  
"That's enough, Chuck," Jade admonished. "I think they all get the picture." She turned to the two men. "Gary's a rare individual. He really cares about doing the right thing. No matter how much it may cost him, personally. And, lately, it's cost him a lot."  
  
Chuck scooted his chair back and rose abruptly. "I'd better go see how he's doing," he said. "Excuse me."  
  
Crystal turned an apologetic gaze on her cousin.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Jade," she murmured. "I really didn't mean to upset him! Most guys I know can't wait to brag about how brave and manly they are. I just thought that, well, Gary was one of the few people I'd ever met who'd actually earned bragging rights."  
  
Jade cast a sorrowful look after the back of her retreating husband. "It'll be okay," she sighed. "Gary's a very forgiving person. He's also a very private person. Things like this, well, he's easily embarrassed."  
  
"You make him sound like a saint," Steve grumbled, taking a sip of his wine. "I'm sure he has some flaws!"  
  
"Stubborn as a mule," Jade smiled. "Hard-headed, opinionated, just the tiniest bit sexist. Just your typical male character flaws. Other than that, he has to be the nicest guy on the planet."  
  
*************  
  
Chuck caught up with Gary on the deck. His best friend was staring out at the ocean, the setting sun casting long shadows behind him. "You okay, Gar?" he asked quietly.  
  
"Sure, Chuck," Gary sighed. "I'm fine. Just . . ." he glanced down at his hands, "you know."  
  
Clasping his friend's shoulder and giving it a gentle nudge, Chuck nodded. "Yeah. I know. Still having those dreams?" he asked.  
  
"Sometimes," Gary shrugged. "Not as much, though. I think . . . I think some part of me still wants to take the blame for what happened, even though I know it wasn't my fault. It's just . . . just that, sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still see the look in his eyes when . . . or feel his . . . his heart . . . beating against mine," he continued in a tight voice. "Th-the way it got faster and f-faster, and then just . . . quit. I-it's not like I've never seen anyone die before, Chuck. There was M-Marley, Harry Hawkes, Hernandez, Jeremiah Mason, Earl Candy, Judge Romick, and let's not forget everyone's favorite 'dog with a bone,' Frank Scanlon. I couldn't . . . couldn't stop any of them from dying. So . . . so why should one more matter so much? Can you tell me that?" He was ashamed to feel moisture trickling down his cheek. Damn! When would that well go dry? "I'm sorry," he sniffed, drying his eyes on his sleeve. "I've ruined your dinner."  
  
"Nah," Chuck shrugged. "This is LA. It's not ruined until we hit the six o'clock news. Then it's free publicity. Besides, you're tired. You got, what, two hours sleep on the plane? We should've scheduled this for tomorrow night, after you'd had some rest." He studied his friend more closely, noted the dark smudges under his eyes. "You feel like coming in, now? Or you wanna watch the stars come out?"  
  
Gary nodded, pivoting his chair around. He stopped in mid-turn, startled to see Dr. Sloan standing just inside the patio doors.  
  
"I wanted to see if there was anything I could do," he told them. "I didn't mean to intrude. Are you going to be alright?"  
  
"Sure," Gary shrugged, his voice still a little husky. "I'm just tired. Tried to sleep earlier, but I can't seem to close my eyes while the sun's up."  
  
"Especially not with the twins crawling all over you," Chuck grinned. "They seem to like you. Gar."  
  
"Feeling's mutual," the young barkeep replied with a shaky smile. "They're great kids. So, um, let's go back inside." He looked up at his friend. "Didn't you say there's pecan pie for dessert? With butter?"  
  
Chuck shook his head sadly. "How the hell do you stay so skinny piling on the cholesterol like that?" he asked.   
  
"Jogging helps," Gary said with a wry grin.  
  
"Hardy-har-har," Chuck snorted. He turned to his other guest. "See what I put up with? This is why I left Chicago. He never takes me seriously!"  
  
"I thought it was the hundred thou you got from helping that old lady cross the street?" Gary smirked.   
  
"Really?" Dr. Sloan grinned. "I thought you said you made that in the stock market?"  
  
"Oh, for that you will pay," Chuck told his friend. "You, me, in the park first thing in the morning. You better have an extra glob of butter, bucko, cause I'm gonna run your butt off!"  
  
*****************  
  
The next morning, after Gary beat a roller-bladed Chuck in a hundred-yard dash, he joined his friend and his family on a trip to the new Long Beach Aquarium. Later, Gary held the twins, one in each arm, while Jade and Chuck each took turns pushing the chair, like a stroller, around Venice. They enjoyed the scenery, the local crafts, and the friendly people. Then came a picnic lunch at the park. After which, it was back home and nap time for the babies.  
  
Gary tucked the blanket around his namesake, marveling once more at his friend's good fortune. Who would have figured that, of the two of them, it would be Chuck who ended up with 'The Dream.' The wife, kids, a house on the beach. No picket fence, but close enough. Chuck, the perennial bachelor, ended up with everything that Gary had ever wanted, and more. His friend, who had always dreamed of material wealth, now had everything that really mattered. While Gary had . . . what? 'What do I have?' Gary wondered. 'McGinty's, the Paper, the cat and . . . that's it. My folks, Marissa, a few good friends, but no one to really share my life with. No child of my own to tuck in at night. Is it really fair for me to want that? With all the time I have to devote to the Paper, not being able to make plans, would it be fair to inflict that on a woman I loved? On innocent children?'  
  
"A buck-fifty for your thoughts."  
  
Gary tore his eyes away from the sleeping children to give his friend a sad smile. "Isn't that a little steep?"  
  
"West Coast prices," Chuck shrugged. "Whatcha thinkin' about?"  
  
"Nothing much," Gary sighed. "Just that you've got to be one of the luckiest men alive."  
  
*****************  
  
Chuck and Gary moved their conversation out to the deck. For a few minutes they sat there, just listening to the sound of the waves washing against the sandy shore as they sipped at their drinks. A lone gull drifted low over the waves, the setting sun reflecting off of its gleaming white wings.  
  
"What's it like?" Chuck asked suddenly.   
  
"Hmm? What's what like?" Gary mumbled drowsily. The rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves had almost lulled him to sleep.  
  
"That," Chuck replied, waving a hand at the chair. "What's it like being . . . well . . . you know?"  
  
Rousing from his comfort induced stupor, Gary half turned to face his friend. "No," he said. "I don't know. What's on your mind, Chuck?"  
  
"I was just wonderin' . . . I mean, you seem to be . . . 'okay' with what's happened," his friend shrugged.   
  
"Oh . . . you mean being . . . paraplegic," Gary nodded. "It's . . . well, it's difficult to explain unless you can be a little more specific. There's no pain, if that's what you mean. No physical pain, anyway. Frustrating? Ho boy! You have no idea!"  
  
"No kidding!" Chuck snorted. "Stairs must be a royal pain."  
  
"Most public places have ramps these days, Chuck," the young barkeeper chuckled. "No, I mean . . . well . . . like I said, there's no pain, but . . . there's nothing else, either. It's like shifting around two . . . sides of beef, or something. You never realize just how much your legs weigh until you have to move them by hand. And they're just . . . dead weight. Then there's the difference in the way people treat you. The way they look at you without wanting to see you. Or the way they try to avoid looking at you altogether. The way they stop treating you like a person and more like . . . like an object to be pitied. I don't want pity, Chuck. I don't need it. I-it's demeaning. It makes people see me as being a cripple, not a man."  
  
"I think it's natural for most of us to fall into that trap," Chuck shrugged, taking a sip of his beer. "I mean, you see some poor schmuck go rolling by and you wonder how he ended up in that situation. Or someone like Marissa, being blind and all. Most of us want to help out, somehow. Make things a little easier, you know?"  
  
"A little help is okay," Gary sighed. "Even appreciated. But I'm not helpless. I can do a lot of things for myself. I can feed and dress myself. I don't need help getting in or out of a tub if it has grab-bars or handrails. I can even cook, if things are set up like they are in my loft." He paused to take a sip of his drink. "I'll have to draw the line at skydiving, though."  
  
Chuck almost choked on his beer. "Skydiving! Wha . . . Oh, yeah! I can see you trying to get a parachute rigged for a chair!"  
  
"That's not it," Gary chuckled, glad to have lightened the mood a little. "You can rig a 'chute for just about anything. It's heights, Chuck. I'm still not crazy about heights." He took another sip of his beer, staring out at the setting sun once more. "It's also a bear to get this thing through snow. What do ya think? Should I go with snow tires or all-weather radials?"  
  
"Are we still talking about that chair?" Chuck asked.   
  
"Sure," Gary deadpanned. "I'm thinking of jazzing this baby up. Personally, I think the radials would look cool. Get 'em with whitewalls, maybe put streamers on the handlebars, some racing stripes on the sides. Oh! What do ya think about a red flaming decal on the armrests?"  
  
Chuck shook his head solemnly. "That would be a testament to bad taste." he replied, keeping a straight face with difficulty. "I'd call it quits with the whitewalls."  
  
"Yeah. You're right," Gary sighed. "The flames could be a bit much." He set his empty bottle on the table. "Now, you tell me something."  
  
"Sure. Whatcha wanna know?"  
  
"How does it feel to be a dad?"  
  
Chuck's face lit up like a beacon and he launched into a glowing account of the joys of fatherhood. Smiling, Gary sat back and let his friend talk, the subject safely diverted from himself once more. Besides, he loved hearing about the babies.  
  
*****************  
  
Steve Sloan looked up at the pair chatting away on the deck. At least Fishman was chatting. Hobson seemed to be content just to listen. Shaking his head, Steve waved at the two men and continued on down the beach to his dad's house. Mark Sloan had invited Jesse and Amanda over for an early dinner, as this was one of the few days all of them were off at the same time. He arrived to find his father flipping steaks onto the grill.  
  
"Checking out the new neighbors, Steve?" Dr. Jesse Travis asked as he helped set the table. Jesse was a very young man who appeared to be in his late twenties with sandy blonde hair. He barely came up to the taller man's shoulder.  
  
"Just one of them," Steve replied. He took the drink offered by the pretty black pathologist. "Thanks, Amanda. Dad overheard them talking yesterday and ask me to check out some names this Hobson guy mentioned. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff I found out!"  
  
"Really?" Dr. Amanda Livingston asked, taking a seat at the table. "Such as?"  
  
"Wait!" Dr. Sloan pleaded. He sprayed a little water on the flames before putting the last steak on the grill. He then pulled up a chair. "Okay, what did you find out? How did those men die and how was Gary involved?"  
  
"First of all, you should all know about Savalas," Steve began. "It was in all the papers last year."  
  
"My God, who could forget that," Amanda replied with a shiver. "Imagine fighting for your life while a party is going on down stairs!"  
  
"Or having to lie there with someone dying on top of you," Jesse shuddered. "Gross! That poor guy must've freaked after that!"  
  
"That 'poor guy' is sitting on that deck less than half a mile down the beach," Steve told them. "He seems okay today, but last night, when Crystal brought it up, he went whiter than Dad's hair."  
  
"Remember you said that when you get to be my age," Mark chided his son. "What about the others?"  
  
"Right. Starting with Marley," Steve sighed. "Without a first name, I had to really dig to find out anything on him. The only one I could find that might fit is a J. T. Marley who was killed a few years ago by the Chicago PD. It was cross-referenced with Harry Hawkes and, of all people, President Tyson. It took a lot of digging, pulling in a few favors, and just out-right bribery, but I think I have the gist of the story on that, at least. Marley was an assassin in town to kill the president. He killed Hawkes, framed Gary for the murder, then set the poor guy up to take the blame when the assassination went down. Marley was shot right in front of Hobson and dropped dead at his feet. That was in November of '96."  
  
"I think I remember reading about Hawkes' murder," Mark murmured. "They never mentioned any of the rest of this."  
  
"That's because the Secret Service didn't want to admit that Marley used to be one of theirs," Steve explained. "Swept it under the rug so fast the dust didn't have time to settle. Hobson was cleared of all charges. Next is Hernandez, again no first name. But Hobson, and an Assistant State's Attorney named Rachel Stone, were held hostage by a John Hernandez a few years ago. Hobson talked him into releasing Stone by offering to drive him out of the blockade. Which he did. Hobson was among the three witnesses when Hernandez was hit by a train. After saving the life of Stone's son."  
  
"Who saved him?" Amanda asked, enthralled by the account. "Hernandez or Hobson?"  
  
"Both, according to the boys. Where was I? Jeremiah Mason," Steve sighed. "That one . . ." He shook his head sadly. "Hobson was trying to clear an apartment building that caught fire from a boiler explosion. The investigation later showed that there was no way anyone could've set the fire. The boiler room was locked, but, now get this, Hobson pulled the alarm five minutes before the explosion!"  
  
"If he got everyone out," Jesse asked, "then what happened to Mason?"  
  
"This is where it gets even stranger," Steve told him. "Hobson was down on the street with the tenants before the explosion actually occurred. Someone said he pulled a paper out of his pocket, looked at it, and ran back into the building. Apparently, Mason was some homeless guy sleeping on the roof. As Hobson was trying to get him across to another building, the old guy slips and falls. A Detective Armstrong said that Hobson was in shock when he arrived on the scene. Just staring at nothing, talking in this . . . numb sounding voice. A couple of days later, Hobson was almost killed himself when he chased a couple of kids out of this derelict building just seconds before it collapsed on top of him. They had already given up and put in the call for the coroner when they heard him calling for help."  
  
"He must've been unconscious the whole time," Mark guessed. He failed to suppress a shudder as he imagined being buried alive. "For someone who attracts trouble the way he does, you'd think his name would have been in every paper in the country, after a while."  
  
"Hobson refuses to let himself be named," Steve shrugged. "He's so publicity shy it's scary. Then we get to the incident where Hobson and Savalas first cross. The murder of that columnist, Frank Scanlon. Hobson was arrested and jailed for that, but managed to escape on the day he was taken to be arraigned. There was a Tri-state manhunt for him until another detective, Brigatti I think her name was, came up with the evidence against Savalas and some guy who's name I can't pronounce. Hobson, who was still on the run at the time, shows up just in time to keep Savalas from killing Armstrong and Brigatti. No one knows how he knew what was about to happen, but he was right in the nick of time." He paused to take a sip of his beer. Talking was thirsty work.  
  
"Next is Earl Candy, a good Samaritan type who was out taking food and blankets to homeless people during a severe snow storm. Hobson found him in a derelict building, a piece of a skylight sticking in him. Stayed with him until an ambulance was on its way, but had to leave before it got there. Candy told this to the EMTs. Hobson later shows up at the ER with a guy having a heart attack. Candy doesn't make it, but his tissue is compatible with the heart attack victim. So he gets a much needed transplant, and Candy does one more good deed."  
  
"The ultimate 'good deed'," Amanda murmured.  
  
"Okay, we're down to the wire, here." Steve continued. "Judge Romick. Hobson was seen being thrown out of this bar, called the Z Bar. Owned by a guy named Baylor who had been accused of murdering his girlfriend. The guy, Baylor, was trying to pick up this off-duty nurse. Hobson comes along, warns her what happened to the last girlfriend, and gets the crap beat out of him. A few minutes later, Baylor shoots Judge Romick who gets between him and the girl. Hobson recovers just in time to deck Baylor and get the gun away from him. Judge Romick died in his arms. It was on the night after Romick's funeral that Hobson had the accident which put him in that wheelchair. Armstrong said the guy hasn't had a decent break since. Hobson's spent more time in the hospital than he has at home this past year."  
  
"Wow!" Jesse mumbled. "Talk about your hard luck stories!"  
  
"No wonder he doesn't like to talk about it," Mark sighed. "Can you imagine the kind of nightmares he must be having?"  
  
"Can you imagine what those steaks are gonna taste like if you let 'em burn?" Jesse asked, pointing at the flames coming from the grill.  
  
With a cry of alarm, Mark jumped up to tend to his cooking. The others sat back to talk about less serious topics.  
  
*****************  
  
Gary awoke the next morning, a little unsure of where he was. It took him a moment to recognize his surroundings. He was lying on the foldaway bed in Chuck's den, the sound of the surf providing a soothing background noise. Occasionally, the haunting cry of a foraging seagull echoed through the early morning stillness. The sun was barely up, so why had he awakened?   
  
"Mrrowwrr!"  
  
'Ah no!' "I'm on vacation!" he moaned. "Chicago's a coupla thousand miles away! I'm in a freakin' wheelchair, for cryin' out loud! My entire body feels like one solid bruise. Can't you cut me a little slack?"  
  
"Mrr-rr-rr?"  
  
Propping himself up on his elbows with a resigned sigh, Gary glared down at the smugly purring feline curled up on his legs. A copy of the Los Angeles Times lay across his knees.  
  
"At least you're not leaving it at the door," he murmured, reaching down for the periodical. "I'd have a heck of a time explaining this to Jade."   
  
He flipped it open to reveal a disturbing headline. 'So what else is new?' he mused. The picture accompanying the article was of a face he had met only recently.  
  
'Prominent Physician And Son Die In Freak Incident,' the banner headline read. Gary quickly scanned the account of how Dr. Mark Sloan and his son, Police Detective Steven Sloan, died from the bite of a deadly Fer-de-lance. The venomous reptile had been stolen from an illegal private collection early that morning, but had escaped from the thief as he crossed Dr. Sloan's property while making his escape. It was believed that the reptile may have entered through a loose seal around an air-conditioning conduit.  
  
"Snakes," Gary shuddered. "Who in their right mind would steal snakes?" He looked at his watch. Five thirty. The cat was giving him a running start, at least. The incident wasn't due to happen for another hour. He struggled to sit up. Chuck had been unable to rent him an orthopedic bed for such a short time, or to provide him with a trapeze bar. Now, how was he going to do this? Chuck and Jade were still asleep. The twins had kept them up most of the night. Maybe the good doctor was already up? Gary reached for the phone book on the coffee table, quickly searching for the correct entry. Bingo!   
  
Snatching up the phone from the table, Gary dialed the number. He let it ring for several minutes, to no avail. Either it was turned off, which he doubted, or Dr. Sloan was not home. Gary scanned the article a little further. There! It happened as he was returning home from a late night/early morning consult concerning one of his regular patients in the ER. Taking a quick glance at his watch, Gary noticed that he still had a little over thirty minutes to stop the incident.  
  
Throwing a robe on over his sweatpants and t-shirt, Gary pulled his chair up from its position near the head of the bed and struggled into it. Minutes later, he was rolling down Chuck's front walkway and onto the sidewalk. Dr. Sloan's residence was just a little over a block away. If he hurried, he could get there just as Dr. Sloan was arriving home. As he swiftly propelled his chair along, he wondered about Dr. Sloan's son, Steve. Where was he?   
  
As Gary neared the doctor's residence, he caught a glimpse of a distant stretch of beach. Steve was coming toward him in a steady jog, dressed in sweats and running shoes. 'Good,' he thought to himself. 'Maybe I can keep both of them out 'til Animal Control gets here.' He had put in the call just before he left Chuck's house. Gary also saw a darkly clad figure crawling around the side of the house, obviously searching for something. Crap! The damned snake must already be loose!  
  
"Hey!" Gary yelled. Startled, the slender figure jumped up, preparing to run. Gary was ready for that. He hurled the football he had borrowed from Chuck's display case, the same one that had been signed for him by Chicago Bears quarterback, Joe Damski, catching the fleeing trespasser right behind the ear.   
  
Caching sight of the action, Steve increased his pace, arriving just as his father's car was coming into sight..  
  
"Don't go in the house!" Gary warned him.  
  
"Why not?" Steve asked as he hauled a teenaged boy to his feet. "Did you see someone else?"  
  
"Not ex . . . Dr. Sloan! Don't go in!" he cried as the car disappeared into the garage. Afraid he had not been heard, Gary turned to Steve. "The kid stole a poisonous snake from some private collection a little ways up the beach," he quickly explained. "It's in your house now!"  
  
"What?" Steve exclaimed, glancing towards the house, then back to Gary. "Are you sure? Did you see it?"  
  
"Yes, I'm sure," Gary snapped, "and no, I didn't see it. Just, please, stop your dad before he gets bitten."  
  
"He's right, man," the boy gasped, struggling to get away. "It's a Fer-de-lance. One of the deadliest snakes on the planet!"  
  
Steve thrust the still struggling boy at Gary, who grabbed the young man's wrist and twisted it firmly behind his back. The detective raced to the garage, stopping his father just as he was reaching for the door leading into the house. He quickly explained what Gary and the boy had told him.  
  
"A Fer-de-lance!" he exclaimed, backing away from the door. "Who in their right mind . . .? Wait, Fred Caruthers," he sighed. "That man is snake crazy! Drove his poor wife nuts before she left him. How did you know?"  
  
"I didn't," Steve replied. "Gary did. He knocked some . . ."  
  
"Hold still, will ya?"  
  
Steve winced as he remembered that he had left Gary holding their prisoner. After grabbing a set of handcuffs from the glove compartment, detective and doctor returned to the front to find Gary lying on top of the loudly cursing youth. Steve cuffed the boy to the porch railing, then he and his father helped Gary back into his chair. As this was happening, the Animal Control van drove up. Dr. Sloan happily let the experts handle the retrieval of the deadly reptile.  
  
As the hunt proceeded, the Sloans sat out front, plying Gary with questions. The young miscreant who had started it all kept grumbling about getting 'taken out by a cripple with an arm like Doug Flutie.'  
  
"So, how did you know?" Steve asked. "You said you didn't actually see the snake. And how did you know it was from a private collection?"  
  
"And how did Animal Control get here so fast?" Dr. Sloan asked.  
  
"I, um, called 'em before I left Chuck's," Gary admitted, squirming uncomfortably under their intense scrutiny. "I-I thought I heard this noise. It took me a while to, um, to get to the deck, but then I saw this kid coming out of th-the house down the street. Chuck . . . Chuck said this guy collects all these . . . these exotic reptiles. I-I have to be getting back, now," he stammered. "Chuck and Jade, th-they'll be getting up soon. I'd better . . ."  
  
"Wait!" Mark pleaded. "How did you know the boy had stolen a poisonous one? Are you psychic?"  
  
"Wh-who, me?" Gary squeaked. "N-no. No, I just . . . sorta . . . figured . . ." He wished it wasn't so hard to make a quick, graceful exit in a wheelchair. "Look, I really have to be getting back. This . . . this is my last day before we, um, have to drive up to that camp and-and there's still a-a ton of things they want to show me. Plus I have to . . . to pack and, um, I gotta go. Bye."  
  
Gary spun his chair around and practically peeled rubber getting out of there.  
  
"That is one strange young man," Dr. Sloan remarked. He looked over to where the men from Animal Control were coming out with a writhing burlap bag. "Very strange."  
  
Steve bent to retrieve an object half-hidden in the grass near where the boy had been searching. He tossed it to his dad. Mark caught the football, turning it over in his hands to see that it was autographed.   
  
"Maybe, we should return this," he smiled.  
  
*****************  
  
Gary hurried back the way he had come, hoping to get back before his hosts woke up. 'Too late,' he sighed to himself. Chuck and Jade were coming out of the front door as he neared their driveway. Jade was obviously upset and Chuck was doing his best to placate her.   
  
"Why would he have run out so . . .There you are!" Jade exclaimed. "Where have you been? When I got up to check on the twins and saw your bed empty, I thought . . . God! I don't know what I thought!"  
  
"I told you he'd be okay," Chuck grinned. His smile vanished as he turned to his friend. "So where the hell were you, Gar? You scared the crap out of us!"  
  
Gary bristled at their autocratic tone. He wasn't a child, after all! He still didn't like it when his real parents used that tone with him.  
  
"I came out to get the paper," he grumbled, giving Chuck a significant look. "You know. The paper? Anyway, I saw someone sneaking around that house down the road . . ."  
  
"And you had to chase him, didn't you?" Jade accused. "You couldn't come in and call the police? You had to worry us half-to-death, instead? This is your last day, Gary. We'd planned on leaving the children with Crystal while we went to San Diego."  
  
Gary was really getting irritated now. "I'm not a child, Jade," he growled. "Please don't talk to me like I was. I'm new to the neighborhood, remember? How was I to know he didn't belong there? So, I followed him to Dr. Sloan's place. As he crossed Dr. Sloan's yard, he started acting funny. Like he'd dropped something. I yelled at him, he started to run, so I threw the . . . Oh, man!" he exclaimed, slapping his forehead in frustration. "I forgot the ball!"  
  
The autographed football landed in his lap. Gary winced as he heard footsteps approaching from behind.  
  
"You mean that one?" Steve Sloan asked, coming up behind the chair-bound man. "Quite an arm you've got, there, Hobson. Nailed that kid from almost fifty feet. Ever play pro?"  
  
"N-not exactly," Gary stammered. "Just that one game, right, Chuck?"  
  
"Um, yeah, right," Chuck squirmed. Jade was giving her husband a strange look. "That was when we met 'Regular Joe' Damski. Thanks for bringing it back, Steve."  
  
"Could we have a few words with Gary?" Mark Sloan asked as he, too, joined the group in Chuck and Jade's front yard. Coming up from behind the chair, he placed a hand on each of Gary's shoulders, giving them a tiny shake. "Alone?"  
  
"No problem," Jade smiled as she took her husband by the arm, tightly. "Chuck and I have a few things to discuss, also. Don't we, dear?"  
  
"S-sure thing, darling," Chuck replied, giving his wife a nervous smile. "D-don't be too long, Gar. Once Crystal gets here to baby-sit, we have to be ready to go."  
  
"I'll . . . I'll be right in," Gary sighed. As his friends disappeared inside, Gary turned to face the Sloans.   
  
"The story you told us just doesn't quite match what you told them," Steve observed. "You knew about the snake before you ever left the house, didn't you?" When Gary turned his eyes away without answering, he continued. "We've dealt with psychics before, Gary. It's not that big of a deal."  
  
"I'm not psychic!" Gary grumbled. "I got woke up by the noise, came out to investigate and get the paper. I saw the kid and followed him. The rest you know."  
  
"Then how did you know about the snake?" Dr. Sloan asked. "The boy said it was already in the bag before he left the house."  
  
Gary just stared down at his hands without saying anything.   
  
"You saved my dad's life, Gary," Steve told the silent man. "I'm not trying to interrogate you. I just want to know how to word my report so my bosses don't think I'm crazy."  
  
"Yeah, well, when you figure out how to do that," Gary sighed, "let me know. I could use a few pointers."  
  
************** 


	4. Western Adventure

Later that evening, after spending the day at yet another marine park, Gary and his friends were sitting on Dr. Sloan's deck. The good doctor had asked to be allowed to throw Gary a little 'thank you' party for saving his life. Gary was quickly made acquainted with Amanda and Jesse, both of whom tried very hard to control their curiosity about this shy, but mysterious young man. A battle they were losing.  
  
"So," Amanda was saying, "tell me. How did you know it was poisonous? Did you have some kind of vis . . .Ow! Steve! What was that for?"  
  
"Sorry, Amanda," Steve apologized as he rose from the table. "Would you two mind giving me a hand in the kitchen for just a moment?" he asked, including Jesse in his invitation. "Now?"  
  
They got the hint. A moment later, Steve was leaning back against the counter as he spoke with his father's colleagues.  
  
"Don't bring up the psychic angle," he warned them. "I got in touch with that retired cop Gary mentioned the other day. He warned me that Hobson is very sensitive on that subject. Seems that Marley tried to convince him that he was crazy. He almost succeeded. For the longest time, Hobson couldn't even watch those psychic hotline commercials without breaking into a cold sweat."  
  
"Sounds like this Marley was some piece of work!" Jesse said with a shudder. "I'd hate to run up against someone like that."  
  
"Crumb, that's the ex-cop's name, also told me that Marley had trapped Hobson and had him all set up to take the blame for the assassination. Posthumously," Steve added in a grim tone. "The police burst in just as Marley was lining up his shot, but they got him before he could fire. Dropped him right at Hobson's feet. He said the kid had nightmares for weeks." He turned and picked up a couple of loaded platters, handing one to each of his friends. "So drop the interrogation and let the poor guy enjoy his last day here. He's earned that much consideration."  
  
"I imagine he got a commendation, at the very least," Amanda murmured as she headed for the door.  
  
Steve shook his head as he picked up a tray of drinks. "Not even a handshake," he told them.   
  
"You're kidding!" Jesse protested. "No 'Thank you for saving my life, Mr. Hobson?' Nothing?"  
  
"The Secret Service guys just told him to keep his mouth shut," Steve shrugged. "Hobson said something like, 'fine, have a nice day, hope I never see you again as long as I live.' Or words to that effect. He won't talk about it to anyone. The closest he's come was about a month or so after his accident, when he finally admitted to Crumb that he still had nightmares occasionally."  
  
"Occasionally!" Jesse snorted. "I'd be on valium the rest of my life!"  
  
******************  
  
The trio came back out to find Gary sitting near the railing at the edge of the deck. He was staring out at the horizon, apparently contemplating the spectacular sunset. When he turned back at the sound of their footsteps, he wore a sad, pensive expression.   
  
"Steve fill you in on all the topics to avoid?" he asked with a wry smile. "Really, guys, I'm not that much of a basket case. I promise not to get all weepy-eyed and depressed, if you promise not to bring up the words 'visions' and 'voices' in the same sentence. Deal?"  
  
"Deal," Amanda smiled. "And I promise to keep the 'interrogation' on a friendly level. No rubber hoses."  
  
"I'll hold you to that," Gary warned her.   
  
"Where did your friends go?" Jesse asked, looking around for Chuck and Jade.  
  
"Chuck is 'helping' Dr. Sloan with the grill," Gary grinned, seeming a little more at ease. "Jade went to use your phone. She wanted to check on the twins." He turned back to admiring the view. "This is great, living right on the water like this," he said. "I've always loved the water."  
  
"Enjoy it while you can," Steve remarked. "Chuck says this place you're going to is so far off the beaten track, they have to pipe sunshine in on a satellite feed."  
  
******************  
  
The lush mountain scenery rolled past in a vast panorama of beauty as the sedan followed the dusty road to the camp. Gary had known the facility had to be fairly remote, but they had been driving northwards for almost two hours! And that was only since leaving the main interstate! Where was this place?   
  
"It's a little out of the way," Chuck was saying from the front seat, "but its got state-of-the-art medical facilities just a ten minute flight away by chopper, and a completely staffed emergency clinic. They have to with the kind of clientele they cater to."  
  
"Is that supposed to be reassuring?" Gary asked, peering out the window once more at the incredibly green landscape. 'How high up are we?' he wondered. 'Wait! Did I just see the ocean over there? We're miles from the ocean!'  
  
"Quit teasing him, Chuck," Jade admonished. "It is a very well equipped facility with a competent staff. But the directors and staff try to keep accidents to a minimum. It's just that some of the campers have very special needs other than the one you all have in common."  
  
"The wheelchairs," Gary nodded. He reached over and tucked the pacifier back between Alex's puckering lips. Little Gary was trying to stare out the other window, but all he could see was sky. The twins had been very good for most of the trip, only crying when they needed to be fed or changed. Gary still found it amazing that his best friend was a dad, now. A completely doting one, from what he had seen. If Jade didn't step in on occasion, Chuck would never put the kids down long enough for them to learn to walk! Gary envied his friend his good fortune. "It's okay, Jade," he murmured. "You can talk about it without hurting my feelings. The brochure you showed me makes this place sound great. I'm not sure about rock climbing, though. There aren't a lot of places for that back in Chicago. Now, swimming, that could come in handy."  
  
"Especially if you keep diving in to the rescue," Chuck remarked bitterly. "You scared me half to death, you know that? When we couldn't find a pulse . . ."  
  
"I know, Chuck," Gary hastened to say. "Everything turned out okay, though. It took a while, but it did. Just . . . can't ever go 'home' again," he mumbled almost to himself, meaning Hickory, the town where he had grown up.  
  
"That reminds me," Jade spoke up. "Someone named Joe Frawley called while you two were out. He wanted to know how you were doing. Seemed relieved when I told him you were in good spirits. Was there some kind of trouble?"  
  
"You . . . you could say that," Gary mumbled uncomfortably.   
  
"Well, he asked me to tell you that he had a talk with some minister," Jade continued. "This Joe fellow said the minister delivered a wonderful sermon about 'bearing false witness.' Has someone been spreading lies about you?"  
  
"Something like that," Gary sighed. "You know how small towns are. Rumors spread faster than truth. That's . . . that's over and done with now." He peered over Chuck's shoulder. "I think we've arrived." 'Thank you, God!' he added to himself. He really didn't want to relive that nightmarish visit. Not even in memory.  
  
As they passed beneath a huge sign fastened to two of the biggest trees Gary had ever seen, the camp unfolded before them. The buildings were arranged in a loose horseshoe formation, scattered around the edges of a large clearing. The noonday sun bore down on the camp through openings in the leafy canopy. Ten log cabins faced each other in two rows, five to each side of the clearing. At the apex of the horseshoe stood the administration building and the clinic, two separate buildings joined by a covered breezeway. Hard-packed dirt trails radiated in all directions from the central hub of the clearing.   
  
Chuck pulled up in front of the administration building and unloaded Gary's new chair from the trunk. A moment later, Gary was comfortably settled and rolling toward the front door. As they approached, a slender blonde man stepped out to greet them.   
  
"Hi, I'm Andrew," he told them. "And you are . . .?"  
  
"Gary Hobson. These are my friends, Chuck and Jade Fishman. Are you the director?"  
  
"No," Andrew told them. "I'm just one of the counselors." He turned to a tiny red-haired woman coming from a building marked 'Clinic.' "This is Monica, one of our physical therapists. Monica, Gary."  
  
"Nice to meet you, Gary," the smiling woman greeted him in a soft brogue. "I'll be overseeing your rehabilitation, but Andrew will be the one teaching you about rock climbing, horseback riding and such. We'll both be conducting group therapy sessions twice a week. If you feel the need for private sessions, feel free to ask, and we'll be more than happy to accommodate you."  
  
"Th-thank you," Gary stammered. "I'd rather skip that part, if possible." He really wasn't comfortable with people 'messing' with his mind.  
  
"Sorry, Gar," Chuck shrugged. "It's mandatory, part of the program. I guess I kinda forgot to tell you that."  
  
Gary gave his friend a pained look. "You sandbagged me, man," he sighed, shaking his head. "And please, don't ever use that 's' word again! Do you have any idea how many times I've heard that?"  
  
"It's just a word," Chuck protested miserably. "Nothing to get worked up about."  
  
"Actually," Andrew told them with an easy grin, "that's a pretty common, and healthy reaction. Gary doesn't want you to feel sorry for him, because he's tired of feeling sorry for himself."  
  
"Exactly!" Gary exclaimed. "That's . . . "  
  
"One of the things we'll be discussing in your first session," Monica explained quickly. "Which is tonight, by the way. As soon as we've gotten you settled in, we'll take you around and introduce you to everyone." She looked at the single bag Chuck set beside his friend. "My, you travel light! Most of our campers bring a cart load."  
  
Gary just shrugged, laying the suitcase across his lap. He reached out to shake Chuck's hand in farewell, only to be drawn into an awkward embrace.  
  
"We'll be back in six weeks," Chuck told him, his voice tight. "You take care of yourself and behave for the nice people."  
  
"I promise," Gary chuckled. "To try, anyway. You know me. Always in the thick of things,"  
  
"I heard that," Jade sighed as she, too, gave her husband's friend a warm hug. "You were in trouble the first time I laid eyes on you. And, from what Chuck tells me, you'll be up to your neck in it until the day you die."  
  
Gary smiled and shrugged as she released him. "Everybody needs a hobby. You two drive safe going back, okay? And give my folks a call? Tell 'em . . ." Pausing, he turned to the two counselors. "Is there a phone here?"  
  
"We have a satellite phone for emergencies," Monica informed him sadly. "And a radio base station for keeping in touch with parties in the field. But no regular phones."  
  
With a sigh, Gary turned back to his friends. "Just tell 'em I love them and I'll get in touch when I can," he told them. "And give those kids an extra kiss for me."  
  
He watched as his two friends drove away, waving at the cloud of dust that threatened to choke him. Gary then turned to his two guides and allowed them to lead the way to his cabin. He found that he would be sharing with another camper who was currently taking a riding lesson. Gary quickly stowed his meager belongings away, then followed Andrew and Monica on a tour of the facility. They started, naturally, with the clinic.  
  
"We have a fully equipped therapy room," Monica explained in her lilting accent. "We have the parallel bars, free weights, trapeze rings, the works. We also have a whirlpool and a sauna."  
  
"For minor injuries and illnesses," Andrew added, "we have a twenty bed hospital and emergency room. Critical cases are flown out by chopper. Medication is closely supervised. We have to ask that you turn over anything stronger than aspirin and ibuprofen."  
  
"Not a problem," Gary shrugged. "I threw all that away when they released me the second time. Too . . . tempting. I have almost no control over my life as it is," he explained. "No sense in throwing away what little I do have."  
  
"You have more control than you know," Monica smiled. "You make the choice to get up each morning. You choose how to greet the world and how to treat your fellow man. You make choices between right and wrong everyday. It 's your choice to help someone, Gary, or not. It always has been."  
  
Gary froze. For just a moment, he was back in that crumbling basement with the derelict carpet store collapsing around him. The . . . 'man' he believed was Lucius Snow had said almost exactly the same thing.  
  
"What kind of choice is that?" Gary grumbled, heading for the door. "Do something and help someone, or do nothing and watch them suffer . . . or die." He stopped at the touch of a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up into Monica's rich brown eyes.  
  
"It's a choice many would have refused to make," she told him. "It's a choice that requires rare courage and strength of will. From what your friend has told us, those are qualities you have in abundance."  
  
Troubled, Gary looked away from the compassion that radiated from her gaze. "Chuck talks too much," he murmured softly as he continued out the door.  
  
**************  
  
"This is our Administration building," Andrew told him as Gary rolled through the side door. "We have some paperwork for you to sign, then we'll show you the dining room and recreation hall. That's where tonight's session will be held. If you ever need one of us and we're not here, then we can be reached from this base station in the main lobby."  
  
The building continued the rustic theme Gary had seen so far throughout the camp. It, too, was of solid log construction with hardwood flooring. High-traffic areas were protected by inlaid, textured ceramic tiles, which were laid out in a Southwestern pattern.   
  
Monica handed him a clipboard with what proved to be medical release forms. Basically, they gave blanket permission for the camp to obtain all his medical records as far back as they existed. Gary saw no harm in it, and knew that it would be necessary for emergency treatment, so he quickly scrawled his name.  
  
"When's lunch," he sighed. "I'm starved."  
  
"That's where we're headed next," Monica told him with an impish smile. "You'll have your choice of chicken or beef. No pork, sorry. We're fresh out. There's also a wide variety of vegetables, and pecan pie for dessert."  
  
Gary perked up at that. Maybe this place wouldn't be so bad after all.  
  
"We'll introduce you to everyone before we take our seats," Andrew added. "It's a small group, right now. The 'senior' campers are on a two-day outing. Just you and six others."  
  
"Cozy," Gary murmured. "And the . . . the therapy session?"  
  
"Right after supper," Monica promised. "We do give you a chance to unpack, Gary."  
  
They entered the dining room to see a single, long table at which two other men and four women were already seated. The table was loaded with platters and bowls containing a variety of hot foods, steam still rising from many of them.  
  
As Gary approached an empty place at the table, the other diners greeted him warmly. Of the two men, one was apparently older than he was with dark blonde hair and broad, smiling features. The other was a younger man, barely out of his teens. He was slender with hair as dark as Gary's and a solemn expression. The three women ranged in age from a teenager, to a woman in her mid forties.   
  
"Ladies and gentlemen," Andrew announced. "I'd like to introduce our latest addition, Mr. Gary Hobson, a tavern owner from Chicago." He then went down the line, introducing each in turn. "Mr. Doug Richards, college professor. Next to him is Jean Phillips, high school student." He indicated a slender teenage girl with dark red hair. She flashed him a sad smile. "Then there's Bill Thomas, college student. On the opposite side, we have Hailey Tisdale, reporter."   
  
Gary tried not to react to that revelation. He was instantly on his guard, however. Ms. Tisdale was a striking, if not exactly beautiful woman in her early forties, with short blonde hair and hazel eyes. He returned her appraising look with a fleeting smile.  
  
"Then we have Eleanor Parrish, with the LAPD." She was in her early thirties, slender, athletic with hair darker than his own. Penetrating brown eyes studied him closely as she favored him with a grim smile.  
  
"Last is Michelle Williams, model." From the way the twenty-something young woman held herself, Gary would have guessed something like that. She was very slender, with pale blonde hair and blue eyes.   
  
'Great,' Gary sighed to himself. 'A reporter and a cop. The two nosiest professions on earth. I better be careful how I breathe!' He gave them a brief nod and a shaky smile as he pulled up to one of the empty places. "N-nice to meet you," he stammered. He saw that the others had already loaded their plates, so he began to help himself. "Hope you don't mind," he said as he speared a piece of chicken. "We left so early, then forgot to stop for breakfast. My stomach is starting to wonder if my throat was cut."  
  
"No problem," Richards grinned. He spoke in a slow, western drawl. "We don't stand on ceremony around here. However, there is a price to pay. Each newcomer has to listen to how each of us came to be here. Then you have to tell us your tale of woe. I was a part-time rodeo clown down in Houston. Tried a little too hard to distract a bull, and got stomped into the mud."  
  
Gary winced. That had to hurt!  
  
"Jeannie here was an Olympic hopeful as a gymnast," the professor went on. "Another kid hit the balance beam while she was in the middle of a really tough routine. Jeannie landed badly as a result."  
  
"I was on a skiing trip in Aspen," Bill Thomas spoke up for himself. "Avalanche caught me and two others halfway down the slope. The others got clear. I didn't."  
  
Ms. Tisdale dabbed at her mouth with a napkin before speaking. "I was covering one of those nasty little hostage situations in the Middle-East," she said with an ironic gleam in her eyes. "When the shooting started, I forgot to duck."  
  
"High speed chase on the expressway," Eleanor Parrish shrugged. "My car rolled a few times then went airborne. I was lucky to get out of it alive."  
  
"Never do a photo shoot on a mountain top," Michelle smiled. "Especially when working with animals. How my agent ever convinced me to try riding a llama, of all things . . . must've had a severe attack of idiocy."  
  
All eyes turned to Gary, who was trying hard to hide a deep crimson blush.   
  
"Your turn, Hobson," Doug grinned. At Gary's continued silence, he leaned closer to the red-faced barkeep. "Come on. It can't be that bad. Was it a bar fight? A robbery, maybe."  
  
Tisdale turned an intensely curious gaze on the newcomer. "Shot by a jealous boyfriend, perhaps?" she teased.  
  
"N-no," Gary quickly shook his head. "Nothing romantic or . . . or exciting." God! Could his face get any redder? He felt as if he should be glowing! "I, um, I fell down some stairs. I was changing . . . changing a light bulb," he mumbled rapidly.  
  
"Scuse me?" Parrish asked, a tiny smile playing across her face. "I didn't quite catch that last part."  
  
Gary shot her a shame-faced look as he pushed his plate away. He suddenly didn't feel very hungry. "I was changing a light bulb," he mumbled, "and the stool slipped. I landed on the stupid thing at the bottom of the stairs."  
  
The silence was thick enough to cut with a knife. Every eye in the place seemed to be boring holes right through him.  
  
"You've got to be kidding," Thomas laughed. "You're sitting here, listening to us spin these little tales of trauma and drama, and the best you can come up with is . . . a light bulb?"  
  
Andrew started to say something, but Monica laid a hand on his arm and gave a slight shake of her head. Gary was on his own.  
  
"All I can tell you is what happened," Gary sighed, rolling his chair back from the table. His appetite had abruptly vanished. "It was the middle of the night, and I'd had a rough day. The light blew when I flipped the switch and I decided to go ahead and change it instead of waiting 'til my head was clear. I fell down the stairs, broke my leg and lay there for God knows how long before help showed up. Sorry it's not anything dramatic like a car chase, a shootout, or falling off a mountain. Or as athletic as skiing, gymnastics, or the rodeo, but it is what happened." He continued to back away from the table until he could turn around. "Give my apologies to whoever does your cooking," he murmured. "I-it's really good. I just wasn't as hungry as I thought. Excuse me."   
  
As Gary made his escape, the others turned to face the younger man.  
  
"That was cold, Bill," Michelle admonished. "Mr. Hobson is obviously embarrassed enough about what happened. There was no need to rub it in."  
  
"I thought he was kidding," Bill murmured apologetically. "I mean, seriously, a light bulb?"  
  
The two counselors held a whispered conference, and then Andrew made a quick exit as Monica took her seat.  
  
"Gary is a wee bit shy," she told the others. "His friend did warn us that he embarrasses so easily. He's also one to hide his light under a bushel, as they say. For one thing, he didn't tell you what it was that made his day so exhausting. Shortly before spending a very tiring evening waiting tables at his bar because one of his waitresses was injured, he had plunged into a canal to save a wee lad from drowning. He had also been beaten by a couple of drunken patrons, whom he sent home by a cab paid for out of his own pocket. He's not likely to tell you much about himself at all. Which is one of the reasons he's here." She imparted all this information in an even tone as she helped herself to a plate of vegetables.   
  
"Sounds like a very complex man," Hailey Tisdale murmured, eyes fixed on the door through which Gary had fled moments before. "I smell a story here."  
  
"Gary sees himself as being a very simple man," Monica smiled. "A man who believes that every life is precious."  
  
*****************  
  
Andrew found Gary sitting in a small clearing surrounding a duck pond. The melancholy young man was idly tossing pebbles into the placid water.   
  
"That was sorta rough back there," the blonde counselor commented. "Bill is not known for being the most tactful of men." He strolled up next to the wheelchair, both hands deep in his pockets. "The others are having a few words with him, by now."  
  
"Didn't mean to get anyone in trouble," Gary mumbled as he continued to pelt the tiny body of water. "Guess I'm just tired. It was a long drive."  
  
"You were also starving until Bill started in on you," Andrew pointed out. "Abstinence is not encouraged where Tess's cooking is concerned. She's got a temper you wouldn't believe."  
  
Gary flashed Andrew a sad smile before turning back to his 'entertainment.' "Don't wanna upset the cook," he sighed. "I just don't have much appetite right now. Maybe later, at supper."  
  
"Lord, I hope so," Andrew sighed. "Tess will skin me alive if I don't make sure you eat right. Now, come on back. I think you're owed an apology and an extra helping of pie."  
  
Gary shifted the pebbles from one hand to the other as he considered Andrew's words. "You mentioned pecan earlier," he said, giving the other man a sideways glance.   
  
"Still warm from the oven, knowing Tess," the blonde man grinned.  
  
"Toss on a coupla globs of butter with some milk to wash it down," Gary smiled, "and they can keep the apologies."  
  
Andrew stuck out his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Gary grasped it in a firm handshake. "Deal," Andrew smiled. "Now, let's get back before Tess goes on the warpath. I should warn you that she'll expect you to clean your plate first."  
  
"No problem," Gary returned. "It really has been a long time since my last meal."  
  
****************  
  
Later, after rejoining a much-subdued group and finishing his lunch, Gary was shown the training areas. First was the riding stable, where he chose a rather sedate palomino to be his mount. Next was 'The Wall,' where, Andrew explained, the rock climbing classes would begin the following week. Gary had to build his upper body strength up a little more before tackling the artificial construct. Swimming lessons would take place in the indoor pool at the clinic. Next were the outdoor basketball court, and a tennis court. Each area was in its own tree-shrouded clearing, except for 'The Wall,' which stood in a clearing that ended in a sloping, root-encrusted cliff.   
  
Gary found himself drawn to the magnificent panorama spread out before him as he sat back from the edge of the cliff. Taken in such a huge dose, it was so awe inspiring he was unaffected by vertigo. Still, when he tried to look over the edge, his head started swimming and he had to beat a hasty retreat. How was he ever going to climb that damned 'Wall' if he couldn't stand heights? He looked up at the artificial precipice which towered thirty feet above the clearing. It presented a bare, gray face to him that was pockmarked at irregular intervals by carefully placed handholds.  
  
"That's not gonna work," he told Andrew. "There's no way I can climb that thing."   
  
"You've managed to put aside your fear of heights on any number of occasions," the counselor pointed out. "Whatever it took to save someone's life."  
  
Gary shot him a startled look. "Just how much has Chuck told you about me?"  
  
"Chuck isn't your only friend, Gary," Andrew smiled cryptically. "In fact you have friends you haven't even met, yet."  
  
"You, um, you care to explain that?" the younger man asked. For some reason, the image of an enigmatic man in a bowler hat came to mind. "Th-there's not something you just might think I should know, is there?"  
  
"Not at this time," Andrew chuckled. "All I can tell you is to have faith, Gary. Everything happens in its own time."  
  
Gary shook his head and headed back to the main enclosure. "You're a big help," he grumbled.  
  
***************  
  
Gary was finally given the chance to unpack his solitary suitcase. He hoped they had a washer and dryer on the premises, otherwise he'd end up with jeans that really were 'stone washed.' As he was hanging his things in the empty wardrobe on his side of the room, the front door opened with a bang. Startled, he turned in his chair to see Bill rolling into the tiny cabin.  
  
"So, they stuck you with me," the younger man grinned sheepishly. "That figures. I'm really sorry about that scene at lunch," he went on. "I just figured that, being from Chicago and all, you had to've been hurt by some gangster or something."  
  
Gary just shrugged as he continued to put away his things. "No big deal. I hate to be the one to tell you , though, but not everyone in Chicago is related to a mob family," he told Bill. "Or even knows someone connected to the mob." He tucked his shaving gear into a drawer in the bedside table.  
  
"Are you saying you've never had any dealings with organized crime?" Bill persisted.  
  
Gary paused, unsure how to answer the probing question. "Dealings?" he mused. "No." 'Run-ins, yes,' he thought to himself. "But I've met a few. I do run a bar, if you recall."   
  
Bill sort of meandered over to his own side of the room, idly glancing at the remaining contents of Gary's bag. "No drug trafficking, jewel smuggling or 'murder for hire'?" the younger man wondered out loud.  
  
Gary stopped what he was doing to stare at the younger man. "You mind telling me what all this is leading up to?" he asked. "I'd really like to know."  
  
"Monica said you saved some kid from drowning just before your accident," Bill shrugged. "Just wondered if you had a 'dark side,' so to speak."  
  
"Doesn't everyone?" Gary replied. "I have a lousy temper, if that helps. I stutter when I get excited or nervous. I snore like a freight train. And I really don't like heights. Oh yeah, I have the social life of a monk. Anything else?"  
  
"Just one thing," Bill grinned. "How are you at basketball?"  
  
"I can hold my own," the young bar owner shrugged. "Or at least make 'em remember I was in the game. Are you hinting at a little one-on-one this afternoon?" he asked with a sideways grin.  
  
"Loser has to do the winner's laundry for a week," Bill replied with a relieved smile. 'This guy isn't so bad,' he thought to himself.   
  
"You're on," Gary agreed. "Name the time."  
  
"Right now," Bill suggested. "We have a group session right after supper, which only leaves us another hour and a half before we have to get cleaned up. Since you're new here, I guess I'd better warn you. Nobody comes to Tess's table with dirty hands. The penalties can be lethal."  
  
"I'll remember that," Gary chuckled. "Mind if I meet you there? I have to ask Monica something."  
  
"No problem. Ten minutes?"  
  
"Make it fifteen," Gary told him. "It might take me a minute to find her."  
  
Bill quickly agreed, hurrying to get in a little warm-up before Gary joined him. Gary, meanwhile, went in search of a certain red haired counselor. He wanted to know how she had known about the boy he had saved. Everything had happened so fast that day, he hadn't even told Marissa. Chuck, for sure, didn't know. So . . . who had told her?  
  
*****************  
  
By the time he was supposed to meet Bill, Gary had yet to find the counselor/therapist. It was as if she were avoiding him.   
  
He found Bill Thomas practicing his lay-ups on the court. The younger man was pretty good, Gary thought. Still . . .   
  
At first, the two players seemed evenly matched. Bill's youthful exuberance and flexibility, however, was no match for Gary's greater strength and experience. Gary soon had the younger man extending his defense, making it harder for Bill to get the ball away from the older man. Add all that to the fact that Bill was lousy at getting three-pointers, and Gary had the game in the bag.  
  
"Where the hell did you learn that rim-shot?" Bill grumbled when it was over. "I didn't even see it coming!"  
  
"Something I picked up the last time I went back home," Gary replied with an easy grin. "Trick is to get the angle just right. After that, it's just luck."  
  
Bill shook his head sadly. "I could never get that lucky," he sighed. "Did you play in the pros, or college?"  
  
"A little in college," Gary shrugged as he led the way to the equipment locker. "Football was my game back then. I was never good enough for the pros."  
  
"But you've kept in practice," Bill persisted. "I mean, you've, um, you've got some pretty cool moves for . . . well . . ."  
  
"Someone my age?" Gary chuckled. "I may be in a wheelchair, kid," he continued, "but I'm not ready for a nursing home, yet. I help coach a youth league back home. C'mon. I still need to talk to Monica before I get cleaned up. And you owe me a week's laundry service."  
  
*****************  
  
By suppertime, Gary still had not been able to get Monica alone. The lissome redhead sat at the head of the table, with Andrew at the other end. She smiled whenever she replied to some comment or question, speaking in soft, lilting tones. Gary watched her as he tackled his own meal with enthusiasm. The quick game with Bill had not only gotten him a week's laundry service, but a voracious appetite as well. The fact that the food was some of the best he'd ever eaten didn't hurt, either.  
  
Finally, they retired to the recreation room and parked their chairs into a semi-circle, facing Monica and Andrew. The two counselors pulled up a couple of easy chairs and started the session by turning to Gary.  
  
"As the newcomer," Andrew told him, "you should start things off by telling us exactly what happened that night, when you fell."  
  
Gary ducked his head and shrugged. "Not much else to tell," he murmured. "I don't remember most of what happened."  
  
"Then tell us what you do remember," Monica gently urged.  
  
Again, Gary gave a little shrug. "The stepstool slipped and I ended up at the bottom of the stairs," he murmured. The fingers of his right hand kept worrying at the broad band of his watch. "The next thing I recall was waking up in the hospital a coupla days later."  
  
"That's not exactly true," Monica admonished. "You were unconscious a long time. You dreamed, didn't you?"  
  
Gary shot her a strange look. "Sorta," he mumbled, eyes fixed on his hands once more. "I-it was . . . strange."  
  
"The idea is for you to open up to us, Gary," Doug snorted impatiently, "not make us pull it out of you one word at a time! Dreams are always strange. It's the nature of the subconscious mind. What was it that made your dream seem strange to you?"  
  
For a moment, it seemed as if Gary was going to refuse to answer, then . . . "It was too 'real'," he sighed. "Wh-when I was ten, this guy saved my life. Kept me from being run over by a truck. I was just a kid, and I guess I blocked it from my mind until . . . until something happened to make me remember. A-anyway, in . . . in this dream, I had to go back and save him so that he would be able to save me. And it was really . . . detailed. Days passed in this . . . place. And . . . and even in the dream, I could . . . I could feel what was happening to my . . . real self. I was in so much . . . pain and it was like . . . like I could feel the life . . . and the strength draining from my body." His hands clenched and unclenched reflexively as he related his 'dream' to the others. "I kept having to . . . to do things when I was so . . . weak. And I knew that, if I didn't do this, didn't succeed, I'd die."  
  
"Were you frightened?" Eleanor asked in a surprisingly gentle tone.  
  
"Oh, yes!" Gary chuckled nervously. "I've only been that scared a few times in my life. Each time, I was almost certain I was about to die."  
  
"So, what was happening in the real world while this was going on?" Bill asked. "How long before help arrived?"  
  
"Coupla hours," Gary mumbled, once more fixated on what his hands were doing. There was no comment from the other campers as the horror of his situation sank in. "They, um, they said there was blood everywhere. A big, huge puddle of it coming from my leg. A smaller one from where I'd hit my head. The, ahm, doctor told me I should've bled to death long before help ever got there. He . . . he believed the . . . the end of the bone was putting pressure on the artery, slowing down the . . . blood loss. By the time help arrived, I didn't have a whole lot left, a-apparently, 'cause m-my heart . . . stopped."  
  
No one said anything as they tried to picture in their minds what it must have been like. To be lying there, alone in the darkness, unable to move, as he felt the life draining out of him. No wonder he hallucinated!  
  
"A-anyway," Gary continued, clearing his suddenly dry throat, "they, um, they got me jump-started again, about the time the ambulance got there. Th-then . . . then it stopped a coupla times o-on the way to the . . . the hospital. And . . . and one more time wh-while they were . . . were trying to get me st-stabilized. They, um, they told me later that . . . that they gave up on me that time." He suddenly unsnapped the tabs that held his watch to the wide leather band. Handing the loosened timepiece to Monica, he pointed to the inscription. "That . . . that's when I 'came back', they tell me. M-my mom told me . . . later . . . that they called th-the time at . . . at 4: 42 AM. So, um, I was gone . . . quite a while."  
  
The others passed the watch around wordlessly, reading the time inscribed on the back: 4:56 AM. Each of them gained a new respect for this soft-spoken young man. Jean Phillips finally handed it back to Gary.   
  
"S-so you see," he stammered as he fastened it back in place, "it was just a stupid accident. Nothing exciting, o-or romantic about it. C-could've happened to a-anyone."  
  
"You underestimate yourself, Gary," Hailey Tisdale murmured. "I've covered wars with less human drama than what you've just told us. You were fighting for your life! Hanging on tooth and toenail for each second! Even when the medical staff gave up, you didn't! For each of us, as traumatic as our own experiences were, help was there within minutes! You lay for hours, not even knowing if help would arrive at all!"  
  
"I feel really bad about that 'light bulb' crack, now," Bill sighed. "I had no idea, man."  
  
"S'okay," Gary shrugged, a tiny smile playing across his saddened features. "You shoulda heard what my best friend had to say." He tugged nervously at his watchband. "Chuck . . . Chuck's crazy. He, um, kept trying to find out . . . things."  
  
"What kind of things?" Jean asked innocently.   
  
Gary's only answer was a deep crimson blush as he suddenly found that watchband very fascinating!  
  
"Oh, dear," Michelle giggled. "Chuck sounds like a cruel, evil man!"  
  
"Nah," Gary grinned. "He's just Chuck."  
  
Jean looked around in puzzlement as the others broke into abashed grins. "Am I missing something, here?" she asked. "What was it he wanted to know that was so . . . oh!" Jean's own face went six shades of crimson as the answer suddenly sank in. "Oh, dear!" She looked at Gary with a mischievous gleam in her eye. "Did you ever find out for yourself?"  
  
Gary looked at the young girl, his expression serious. "How old are you, Jean?" he asked.  
  
"Fifteen," she told him. "Why?"  
  
"Cause you still have a long life ahead of you. Plenty of time to hear . . .stuff like this. Yes, I-I got an answer, but it was a mixed blessing. Things got . . .ugly. A lot of . . . of things were said that . . . well, let's just say my social life didn't take off the way . . ." He looked around at the other, expectant faces. "Um, wh-who's next?"  
  
**********************  
  
It wasn't until much later, while the others were all preparing for bed, that Gary was finally able to corner the two counselors more or less alone. He found them in the dining room, talking in hushed tones with the cook, a heavy-set black woman named Tess. The young camper pushed his chair up to the table.  
  
"Hi," he greeted the trio. "I think we need to talk."  
  
"Sure, Gary," Andrew shrugged. "What's on your mind?"  
  
"I wanna know how you three know so much about me," Gary told him. "You've been dropping these little hints all day about things I haven't told anyone." He turned to face Monica directly. "How did you know about the kid I pulled out of the canal that day?" Gary shifted so that he was looking Andrew in the eye. "What did you mean about my having 'friends' I hadn't met yet?" To Monica: "How did you know I dreamed? People don't always dream with head injuries. And you've been fixing all my favorite foods since I arrived," he added, looking at Tess. "Stuff even my mom doesn't know I like.  
  
The oddly matched trio exchanged glances. They seemed to be speaking without saying a word that he could hear. After a couple of minutes of this, Gary began to get irritated.  
  
"Excuse me, people," he said. "I'm still sitting here, waiting for an answer of some kind!"  
  
"I'm sorry, Gary," Monica said with a winsome smile. "There's not much we can tell you. All the information was in your dossier. Every client is preceded by a very thorough information packet."  
  
"We can't tell you who puts the packet together," Tess added. "He's a stickler for detail, though."  
  
"He must be," Gary grumbled. "He's even getting inside my head." He stared back at the three camp 'officials.' "Could you put in a call to my friend tomorrow?"  
  
Andrew shot Monica a puzzled look before answering. "We can try," he said. "Why?"  
  
"Please ask him to come back as soon as possible," Gary replied grimly. "I can't stay someplace where . . . where you know more about me than I know about myself." He started to back away from the table.  
  
"Wait, Gary," Tess spoke up. "I can't promise you'll get all the answers you desire," she told him, "But if you can hang in there for a few more weeks, you may at least find out why you're here."  
  
Gary met her gaze with a direct, appraising look of his own. "I'm going to hold you to that," he promised, as he headed for the door. "I'm more than just a little tired of the runaround I've been getting for the last few years."  
  
*********************  
  
When a strange noise woke Bill later that night, he recalled Gary's off hand comment about snoring. Expecting to hear a loud rumbling sound, he was surprised to hear a low mumbling instead. Gary's head was tossing fitfully from side-to-side, as his hands made feeble 'warding off' motions. Concerned, Bill threw back his covers and slid into his chair. A moment later, he was pulled up to the older man's side, reaching out a hand to try to wake him. He paused as he began to make out a little of what Gary was saying.  
  
*********************  
  
Gary was once more in his loft, his left arm stretched painfully behind him and cuffed to the back of his chair. Savalas stood before him, grinning evilly, a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth.  
  
"You shouldn't have done that, Hobson," he chuckled, a mad gleam in his eyes. "You shouldn't have killed me."  
  
"I didn't!" Gary gasped, wincing as the cuff once more bit into his flesh. "You pulled the trigger, not me! You killed yourself!"  
  
"Do you really believe that?" the evil specter laughed. "You are so naïve! You fought me, Hobson. You pushed the gun so that it was pointed at me!"  
  
"I know that!" Gary sighed. "And I'm sorry! I didn't want to kill anyone! I'm sorry!"  
  
"I don't want sorry!" Savalas screamed into his victim's face. "I want my life back! Can you give me that?"  
  
His face twisted in anguish, Gary tried to escape that leering glare. "No!" he sobbed. "I can't. You know I can't! Go away! P-please, just . . . go away!"  
  
*****************  
  
"Go 'way!" Gary whimpered. "Sorry! 'm so sorry! Please, go 'way! Not . . . not my fault."  
  
Bill listened in horrified fascination as his roommate pleaded to be released from whatever nightmare visage held him in its grip. Hesitantly, he reached out to lay a hand on Gary's left shoulder, meaning to shake his new friend into wakefulness. Even in the darkness, he was able to sense the flailing fist that just barely missed his face. He grabbed it, trying to restrain it long enough to get through to him. The other man was surprisingly strong. It took both hands and most of his strength to hold onto that one arm. As he struggled to keep his grip, Bill was startled to feel a ridge of tissue that completely encircled Gary's wrist.   
  
"Gary! Wake up!" he cried. "It's just a bad dream, man! Wake up!" He let go with one hand long enough to switch on a lamp. The sudden illumination did the job that his voice could not.  
  
"Hmm? Wh-what?" Gary blinked several times as he tried to get oriented to the strange surroundings. "Where . . .? Oh. Oh, man! I'm sorry, Bill," he mumbled drowsily. "Didn't mean to wake you up."  
  
"S'okay, Gary," Bill sighed, relieved to be able to release his hold. As he did, he took a closer look at the other man's wrist. A livid scar completely circled Gary's wrist. "What caused this?"  
  
"Caused wh . . . Oh. That." He scrubbed at his face with his right hand as he contemplated the scar. "Trick 'r' treat," he murmured.  
  
"Come again?" Bill asked in puzzlement. "What does that mean?"  
  
"Sump'n' tha' happ'ned las' Halloween," Gary mumbled. "It's a long story." Sleepily, he turned himself over onto his side. "G'night."  
  
Hesitantly, Bill asked, "You wanna talk about it?"  
  
"Bout wh . . .? Oh. No. Not now, anyway." Gary sighed. "Like I said, it's a long, sad story. Sounds better in the daylight. G'night, Bill."  
  
Disappointed, Bill headed back to his own bed. He couldn't help but wonder what his roommate had been dreaming about. As he hoisted himself back into bed, he heard Gary shift back onto his back, reaching out to turn off the forgotten lamp.  
  
"Bill?"  
  
"Yeah, Gary?"  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
****************  
  
The next morning, Bill found Doug and Hailey in the stables, discussing the new arrival in hushed tones. Easing in, he listened a moment before making his presence known.  
  
"You have to admit it was an incredible story," Doug was saying. "Sent shivers up my spine thinkin' about lyin' on those stairs in the dark, alone. Brrr!"  
  
"Makes me wonder if that's all it was," Hailey murmured in response. "I mean, the way he down-played it was masterful, but that bit about his heart stopping four times, c'mon! The watch was a nice touch, but anyone can get an engraving done."  
  
Bill chose that moment to announce his presence by clearing his throat. "Couldn't help overhearing, guys," he said, "but I think you're wrong, Hailey. I think he's the real deal." He quickly told about waking Gary up from a nightmare, and finding the scar encircling his wrist. "It was deep, guys," he shuddered. "Whatever did it had to go almost to the bone! When I asked him about it, he just said he got it last Halloween."  
  
A thoughtful looked crossed Hailey's face as she tried to remember what was so special about last October 31st. "Did he mention anything else?" she asked. "A name or something?"  
  
"Just 'Trick or Treat,' is all he'd say about it." Bill shrugged. "Oh! While he was still tossing around in his sleep, I think I heard something that sounded like 'Valus.' Does that make any sense?"  
  
Doug and Hailey both looked startled. "Savalas?" Doug asked. "The fugitive who was killed in a home invasion last year?"  
  
"Now we know who's home was invaded," Hailey murmured thoughtfully. "The article only said that the man who killed him was hospitalized from injuries sustained in the struggle. A month later, a follow-up in the 'Sun-Times' simply said that he was recuperating at his parents' home in Indiana."  
  
"It didn't mention a name?" Bill asked.   
  
"The first one, no," Doug replied. "At least, not in my neck of the woods. The second one just mentioned that he owned a . . . a bar on the corner of Illinois and Franklin in Chicago."  
  
Hailey looked from one man to the other. "Suddenly, I can't wait for tomorrow night's session."  
  
*************  
  
An hour later, Andrew was holding the reins of the palomino as Gary parked his chair on the raised platform next to which the horse stood. Gary removed the arm of the chair, making it easier for him to pull himself into the saddle. By lying on his stomach and sliding himself over until his legs fell to either side, Gary found it much easier to get mounted than he had thought.  
  
"That was very good, Gary," Andrew smiled. "Now, let's get your legs in the stirrups. These spring clamps will help hold them in place, and still let you throw yourself clear in an emergency."  
  
Gary kept a tight grip on the saddle horn as Andrew got him situated securely. Gary had ridden before, on occasion, and even enjoyed it. It was a different prospect, entirely, when he couldn't use his legs to grip the horse's girth. When the blonde counselor finally handed him the reins, he retained his grasp on the saddle.  
  
"There's no need to be nervous," Andrew told him. "The only thing that's changed is how you hang on. Now, just shake the reins a little to get her to move forward."  
  
Obediently, Gary gave the reins a quick shake. The placid animal took a few tentative steps forward, stopping when her rider pulled back gently on the leather straps. 'So far, so good. Now let's take it up a notch.' Gathering his nerve, Gary shook the reins once more. As the mare started forward, he let go of the saddle horn, giving the straps another shake. She obediently quickened her pace. Within minutes, they were moving at a brisk canter around the practice ring. A tiny grin spread across his face as he began to relax and enjoy the familiar rhythm and the gentle rocking motion.  
  
"Excellent!" Andrew exclaimed, clapping his hands in approval. "You're ready for the next lesson," he added as Gary stopped the mare in front of him.   
  
"Next lesson?" Gary asked. "What's that? Getting back in the chair?"  
  
"Nope." Andrew tapped the palomino on her left shoulder. With a lurch that sent Gary grasping for the saddle horn once more, the horse bent her forelegs and lowered herself to the ground. "Next is getting on and off the horse without the platform." He took the reins from Gary's frantic grasp. "It's okay," he assured his pupil. "All the horses are trained for this. Just slide off her back and onto the ground."   
  
Nervously, Gary did as he was told. He felt oddly vulnerable without his chair.   
  
"That's good," the counselor smiled encouragingly. "Now, pull yourself back into the saddle. That's it. Great. Now, tap her right shoulder."  
  
The mare lurched upright, with Gary hanging onto the saddle horn for dear life. She stood very still as, following Andrew's careful instructions, Gary re-inserted his legs into the stirrups, allowing the spring-clips to close around his calves.  
  
"That was excellent, Gary," Andrew praised him. "Now, let's try that a few more times to make sure you've got it down pat, then we need to hit the gym. We want to have you climbing 'The Wall' before the end of this week."  
  
"I've been meaning to ask about that," Gary remarked as he slid off the saddle once more. "Do I have to climb that thing? There's not a lot of call for that in Chicago."  
  
"Yes, Gary. You do," Andrew told him. "It's part of the program. We have to work on that 'fear of heights' problem of yours. Rock climbing is good therapy for that."  
  
Gary climbed back onto the horse, mumbling something that sounded like, "From your mouth to God's ears."   
  
Andrew just smiled.  
  
****************  
  
Supper that night was a fairly quiet affair. The others speculated mostly about the reason why the senior group had decided to extend their outing another three days. Gary was simply glad to be out of the hot seat, himself.  
  
"Monica said one of their horses pulled up lame," Eleanor told them. "Raphael came back this morning for more supplies and told her what happened. They didn't want to leave anyone behind, so they all 'volunteered' to extend their outing. Personally, I think they were just looking for any excuse to stay out there."  
  
"You're probably right," Doug drawled lazily. He pushed his plate away and leaned back with a satisfied sighed. "Lord knows there's some great places to camp around here." He turned to the man seated next to him. "You ever been camping, Gary?"  
  
"A few times," the younger man shrugged. "Not for a while, though. Why?"  
  
"During the last two weeks," Hailey spoke up, "they take us on a two day horseback ride and rock climbing trip. Raphael usually conducts those little outings."  
  
"Sounds like fun," Gary mused, idly toying with an errant sweet pea. "Rock climbing, huh?"  
  
"Don't worry," Michelle assured him with a friendly smile. "Andrew will make sure you know your stuff before then. Safer for everyone that way."  
  
"If you say so," Gary sighed, obviously not convinced. That pea was getting a real workout as he chased it around his plate.  
  
The others exchanged amused glances.   
  
"Is there a problem, Gary?" Bill asked. "You seem a little . . . nervous."  
  
Gary continued to roll the tiny morsel around on his plate a moment before he responded. "Not very . . . comfortable w-with heights," he stammered, not meeting their eyes.  
  
"Is that something new?" Jean asked. "Since the accident, I mean?"  
  
"Nooo," Gary replied with a slow shake of his head. "It may've had something to do with it, though. H-heights make me . . . dizzy. They always have. I think that's why I decided to go ahead and change the bulb that night, instead of waiting. I-if I couldn't . . . couldn't see it, m-maybe it wouldn't . . . b-but I guess it did."  
  
******************  
  
Much later that night, Bill was again awoken by mutterings from the other bed. Slipping quietly into his chair, he eased up close enough to make out some of what Gary was mumbling.  
  
"N-no," he murmured. "D-don't go. Not a . . . a loser. Please, Marcia!" His voice drifted down until it was little more than incoherent whispers. Gary grew still for a moment, then his voice rose to a frantic pitch. "Y-you can't do this, Dobbs! S-stop you . . . don' have . . . soul . . ." His voice grew lower until Bill had to strain to hear anything. Mostly, all he heard was low groans and grumbling.  
  
"L-look at me!" he gasped suddenly. "D-don't look . . .look down! Look at me! W-we can do this! W-we . . . can . . . No-oo-oo!" he sobbed. "J-Jere-. . . Jeremiah."  
  
Fascinated, Bill watched Gary as his face twisted with more than just physical pain. Tears glistened on his cheeks and in his eyes as a gamut of emotions, suppressed during the day, ran rampant in his dreams.  
  
********************  
  
Gary ran down darkened streets, his pursuers hot on his heels. At every doorway, every alley mouth, faceless figures lunged out. Some tried to trip him up, others stuck weapons in his face. Somehow, he eluded them all.   
  
Finally, staggering with exhaustion, gasping for each ragged breath, he plunged through a familiar door. She was waiting for him this time. He threw both hands up in a pleading/warding off gesture . . . as Toni pulled the trigger . . .  
  
A heavy fist slammed into his jaw, rocking his head back on his shoulders. Dazed, Gary found himself once more chained to his wheelchair. This time both hands were stretched behind him so tightly, it felt as if his shoulders would pop out of their joints at any second. Another blow landed across his face and a rough hand grasped his hair, yanking his head back until he was forced to meet the hellish gaze of his captor.  
  
"No escape, this time, Hobson," Savalas sneered. "You're mine to play with for as long as I like. And no one to hear you scream."  
  
"You go to hell, Savalas," Gary hissed. "You were a sick, twisted bastard in life. Being dead hasn't helped you a bit!"  
  
The fugitive drew his hand back for another backhanded blow . . .  
  
And Brigatti pushed him away from her, face twisted in anger. "You think just because you've been dumped a few times that every woman is out to wipe her feet on your heart?" she snapped. "Well, let me be the first to tell you, Hobson. You are not worth the effort!"  
  
"You are not that big of a catch!"  
  
"Worthless!"  
  
"Not worth . . ."  
  
*****************  
  
". . . the effort," Gary mumbled. "You're . . . loser, Hobson, worthless."  
  
Bill felt like a voyeur, listening to the poor guy getting one low blow after another. Had anything nice ever happened to him? Doug and Hailey had to hear this, he decided. Maybe they should help him bring this out in tomorrow's session. Grabbing a pad and pen from the nightstand, Bill clicked on the light and scribbled a few notes before reaching out to awaken his roommate.  
  
"What!" Gary's eyes snapped open with a wild, panicked look. Breath coming in ragged gasps, it took him a moment to remember where he was. He pressed both hands to his face with a mumbled apology. "I did it again, didn't I?" he sighed, wiping the tears from his eyes. "This is one habit I really need to break."  
  
"Have you always had nightmares like these?" Bill asked, concerned. "I mean, has your whole life been one long slump?"  
  
"No," Gary told him honestly. "Just the last few years. Thanks for waking me up, again. Now, get on back to bed. No sense in both of us losing sleep."  
  
"You need to talk to someone about this, Gary," Bill insisted. "Holding stuff like this inside just makes it worse."  
  
Gary turned his face to the wall as he mumbled, "I'll think about it. Now go on back to sleep. I'm okay, now." 'I hope.'  
  
******************  
  
"It was awful," Bill murmured as he passed the notebook to Hailey. "If he wasn't getting dumped on, then he was getting beat up or pushed around. And they seem to be getting worse."  
  
The reporter read the hastily scribbled notes, then passed them to Eleanor. The ex-cop scanned the pages, nodding thoughtfully.  
  
"I have a friend on the Chicago PD," she told them. "He was telling me about this case just a few days after it happened. Really shook him up." She stared off into the distance, the note pad dangling loosely in her hand.  
  
They sat on the bluff which was bordered on one side by 'The Wall.' Doug and Michelle also sat in on this impromptu 'war council.' They had not thought to include Jean, feeling that she might be too young to really understand what they were doing. As if they understood, themselves.  
  
"So," Doug spoke up impatiently, "what did he tell you?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh, sorry," Eleanor murmured. "He was the first one on the scene. There had been a loud Halloween party going on in the bar downstairs and no one heard the shots. Or, if they did, they must've thought it was canned sound effects. Anyway, he got a call from the detective assigned to watch another group under protection at a safe house. Seems these other people were convinced that something had happened to the witness the police were supposed to be protecting at the tavern. So Davis, that's my friend, went upstairs to do a visual check." The ex-cop looked down at the notepad once more, shaking her head sadly. "He found the fugitive lying on top of the man they were there to protect. It was . . . There was blood all around them, he said. The guy was in shock, staring at nothing, and repeatedly tugging on the handcuffs that had his left hand fastened to . . . his wheelchair. The fugitive, Savalas, had been dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in. The victim, whom I have to assume was Hobson, had been shot in the right shoulder, and . . . now this part really set my teeth on edge. The cuff on his left wrist was so tight, his hand was purple by the time they found him. Said it was touch and go as to whether or not it could be saved." She handed the notebook back to Bill. "No wonder he has nightmares."  
  
"None of this was released to the media," Hailey mused. "God! What a human interest story this could be! If I could just get him to talk 'on the record'!"  
  
"You know better than that, Hailey," Doug admonished the reporter. "What gets said here, stays here. Gary's entitled to the same courtesy as everyone else."  
  
"But he's news!" Hailey insisted. "The missing piece in the 'Savalas/Scanlon Murder-for-Hire' saga! Hobson was hunted throughout three states before that mess was cleared up!"  
  
"That's true," Eleanor conceded. "But he was cleared. I've even heard rumors that he saved the lives of two of the cops who were leading the hunt. That earns him a little extra consideration in my book!"  
  
"What about the rest of it?" Michelle asked. "All those women calling him worthless, a loser. That has to be eating at his self esteem like acid! I can't even imagine how hard it must be for him just to make the effort to meet someone! Never mind making a commitment!"  
  
"I don't see why he isn't the bitterest man alive," Bill murmured. "I'd never date again after being talked to like that."  
  
Hailey sighed in frustration. "Don't you see?" she persisted. "That's part of what makes his story so fascinating! As badly as life has treated him, he still makes the effort to get his back together! I'd be suicidal with half of what he's been through! Please! I just need ten minutes!"  
  
"No, Hailey," Doug told her. "You can ask what you want in the group sessions, same as the rest of us. But nothing goes to print without Gary's permission. Those are the rules we all agreed to. No exceptions."  
  
Hailey sat back with a 'humph!' as the others planned that night's session. Unbeknownst to them, Hailey was making plans of her own.  
  
******************  
  
"Faster, Gary!" Andrew insisted. "Put some muscle into it!"  
  
Gritting his teeth, Gary struggled to pull his body up the knotted rope. He'd not had to do anything like this since high school, and he was a little out of practice. Not to mention the added difficulty of having his legs dangling below him like two lead weights. Finally, Gary reached the top and, after a moment to get his breath, began working his way down. By the time he was able to lower himself into his chair, his arms were trembling from fatigue. It was so much harder to climb without the assistance of feet and legs than it was with them.  
  
"That was pretty good," Andrew told him, "for a beginner. Take a ten-minute rest, then give it another try. We want you climbing that rope in under a minute by the end of this week."  
  
"Y-yeah," Gary huffed. "Right."  
  
"You know," Andrew observed dryly, "it might be easier with your eyes open."  
  
Gary shot the counselor a sideways look. "For you, maybe," he muttered. "You gonna climb up and get me when I freeze?"  
  
Andrew crouched down next to his pupil. "You won't freeze, Gary." he chuckled. "How many times have you climbed out on a ledge to stop someone from killing themselves? Or saved someone from a fatal, or crippling fall?"  
  
Gary studied his instructor a moment before saying what was on his mind. "You're doing it again," he muttered. "How do you guys know so much about me? I mean, what is so blasted special about me that attracts so much . . . attention?"  
  
"That's one of those things I can't tell you," Andrew shrugged. "Although, the fact that you don't see yourself as being special is exceptional in itself."  
  
"If you say so," Gary sighed. He looked up at the rope. "What is so wrong with a little healthy fear? I mean, it keeps you safe. Keeps you alive! So, I'm afraid of heights. Nobody's perfect," he grumbled.  
  
"In spite of what the theologians claim," Andrew said with a wry smile, "perfection isn't the ultimate goal. Life is a journey of exploration. You learn to do the best you can with what you have. What makes you different, is that you use your gifts to benefit others over yourself. You even set aside the things that terrify you in order to do whatever has to be done."  
  
Gary found himself staring down at his hands. The right one was once more worrying at the band around his left wrist.  
  
"Your best isn't always good enough," he murmured, "is it." It was not a question.   
  
"No," Andrew agreed sadly. "It isn't. But you keep trying. Even this chair hasn't proven that big of an obstacle, has it? You keep trying, no matter the cost. And you succeed much more often than you fail. God isn't keeping a record of how many times you fail, Gary. Just how many times you try. Now, that rope is still waiting and you've had enough rest. Let's try it one more time before Monica starts your therapy."   
  
As Gary grasped the knotted rope once more, Andrew was almost certain he heard him mutter something under his breath that sounded like 'Slave driver.'  
  
********************  
  
Hailey looked around carefully as she eased open the door to Bill and Gary's cabin. She had seen the younger man riding down to the tennis court, and Gary was scheduled for therapy at this time. The resourceful reporter only needed a moment to hide her little device.  
  
She quickly determined which bed was Gary's, and slipped a tiny, voice-activated tape recorder into his night table. It was that easy. As long as the drawer stayed open even the tiniest crack, she could record every sound he made that night. Looking around just as furtively as when she entered, Hailey slipped out the door and proceeded on to her next rock climbing lesson.  
  
********************  
  
"Getting on that horse was the hardest thing I've ever done," Michelle confessed. "After that stupid llama almost killed me, I've been afraid of riding anything without wheels."  
  
They were gathered once again in the recreation room, chairs pulled up in the now familiar semi-circle. The others had taken turns relating how they had been affected by their accidents and by people's reactions.  
  
"Most of my friends have been so supportive," the model continued. "I mean, this is where you really find out who they are." She turned to face the man on her left. "Don't you think that's true, Gary?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh, yeah, well . . . um, most of my 'fair weather friends' were long gone," he murmured. "A-about the time my . . . my marriage broke up."  
  
"Tell us about that," Doug urged. "Can you point to any one thing, or sequence of events that led to your break-up?"  
  
"N-not at first," Gary shrugged. "I thought things were going pretty good. Then, on our anniversary, I came home with flowers, champagne, a nice present . . . and found the locks had been changed. The next thing I know, I'm dodging flying luggage. Mine. A coupla weeks later, this guy slaps some papers in my hand and says 'Have a nice divorce.' I-I was . . . floored."  
  
Eleanor leaned forward in her chair. "Had anything changed in your life that might have upset her? Made her angry at you without you being aware of it?"  
  
"N-not exactly," Gary mumbled.  
  
"Speak up, hon," Hailey smiled. "We all want to hear it."  
  
The young barkeeper shifted uncomfortably in his chair, giving the reporter a brief, red-faced glance before returning his gaze to the hand that went back to tugging at his watchband. "Sh-she, um, she'd just gotten a promotion at . . . at the law firm where she worked. Wh-when I confronted her w-with the . . . the papers, she said . . . she said that she could only be associated w-with . . . with winners. Making it pretty plain that . . . that I . . .wasn't."  
  
"Ouch!" Bill murmured sympathetically. "Talk about your low blows! What did you do then?"  
  
"I, um, I quit my job."  
  
"You . . . Whatever for?" Jean asked. "Because of her?"  
  
"Sorta," Gary shrugged. "It just didn't make sense anymore. I'd hated that job from day one, but I hung in there so she could finish law school and her 'internship.' So she'd have the financial stability she needed to stay focused on her goals. Once she was . . . set, then we . . . at least I thought we were gonna start a family. I mean, isn't that what life is supposed to be about? You fall in love, get married, work to provide for your kids' future and your old age? Grow old together. W-without that, the job . . . didn't mean anything. Besides," he murmured, "I hated that damned tie."  
  
There was an uncomfortable moment where no one could find anything else to say. Then Hailey cleared her throat.  
  
"Tell us about last Halloween," she said. "What happened in your apartment that night?"  
  
Gary's head snapped up, a look of puzzlement mixed with alarm flashing across his sad-eyed features.   
  
"Wh-where did that come from?" he asked.   
  
"From me, I'm afraid," was Bill's shame-faced reply. He shot the reporter a heated glance before continuing. "You, um, you weren't just moaning and groaning in your sleep. You got a little . . . vocal. So tell us. What went on that night?"  
  
The young bar owner looked around at the circle of expectant faces. Hailey was practically salivating in her eagerness. "This is all 'off the record'?" he asked guardedly. He looked directly at Hailey as he spoke. "Not one word gets to print or tape," he insisted. "Not one."  
  
"But you're news, Gary!" Hailey insisted. "All anyone knows is the bare bones of the story. The world needs to hear your side of it."  
  
"No," Gary told her, backing his chair out of he circle. "They don't. The rest of the world wasn't there, and I don't want to be 'news.' That's not what I'm here for."  
  
"Wait, Gary," Monica interceded. "Please stay."  
  
"Why? So she can plaster my life on the front page?" he snapped. "No, thank you."  
  
Hailey leaned forward in her seat, trying to make eye contact with the retreating man. "Gary, the public has a right . . ."  
  
"To mind their own business," was Gary's rejoinder. "And I'll mind mine! I don't want to be a headline! Can't you understand that? I-I don't want to be reminded by every face I catch staring at me as I go down the street that I killed a man!" This last came out in a choked cry. "A man is dead because of me! Not the police, who were supposed to be protecting me from him, and not . . . exactly . . . by his own hand. B-because of me! Yes, he was trying to kill me! That . . . that still doesn't m-make it . . . r-right. I k-keep trying to think . . . o-of some . . . way I could've s-stopped him w-without . . . But I don't know of a-anything . . . Excuse me."  
  
Gary continued backing his chair out of the circle and sped from the room. Every eye in the place watched him leave, then the majority of them turned to look at Hailey.  
  
"What?" the reporter asked defensively. "I was just doing my job. I'm still a reporter, you know."  
  
"And Gary's a bartender," Bill grumbled. "You gonna ask him for a Mai-Tai, later? Or ask Michelle to model the latest trend from Paris? Should Doug give a couple of lectures while he's here? You could sure use one! Or should we ask Eleanor to slap the cuffs on you for reckless use of gray matter. What were you thinking?"  
  
Andrew whispered something to Monica, and then quickly left the room. Leaving the slender redhead to deal with the miscreant on her own, he went in search of the more troubled member of their group. He found Gary back at the same duck pond that he had fled to on that first day. This time he was just sitting there, staring out at the placid waters.  
  
"It's a little dark to be enjoying the scenery," Andrew commented, crouching down next to his pupil. "And I don't see any ducks to feed."  
  
"Wrong time of year, anyway," Gary mumbled. Even in the dark, the counselor could sense the fretful movements as Gary tugged at the leather band encircling his wrist.  
  
"Ready to talk about it?"  
  
Gary gave out with a sort of choked chuckle. "Not in this lifetime," he replied. "I was dealing with it, honestly. I was. But . . . I can't . . . I can't have my f-face, or my name, plastered all over the front page again. You don't know wh-what it was like . . . when everyone just thought I'd killed that reporter. Even after I was cleared, people that I'd never seen before . . . that didn't know me from Adam, kept giving me these . . . looks. And you could almost see what was going through their minds. 'Killer. Murderer. What's he doing on the streets?' A friend on the force told me he was still getting anonymous tips about where I was. Every move I made was being reported and I wasn't even a suspect anymore! Now, even people I grew up with, or who watched me grow up, are thinking 'where there's smoke, there's fire.' And she wants to drag it all back up again. I . . . I can't do that, Andrew. I can't."  
  
"I understand that, Gary," the counselor sighed. "And I agree that you don't need to be subjected to public scrutiny again. But you do need to talk about it. As Bill said, you've been talking in your sleep. Everyone knows about the nightmares you've been having and that they're getting worse. This is going to keep eating at you until there's nothing left. Let us help you, Gary. Don't keep trying to shoulder this burden alone." With a sigh, he pushed himself erect, clapping Gary on the shoulder as he rose. "You go back to your cabin and get some rest. I'll tell the others that we can call it a night. But I want you to think about, maybe, talking about it tomorrow night. We'll keep Hailey in line, even if we have to lock her in her room."  
  
A tiny smile played at the corner of Gary's mouth as he pictured the determined reporter's reaction to that.   
  
"You don't have to go that far," he sighed. "I . . . I'll try. Just . . . don't expect much. Do you have someplace else I can sleep tonight? I don't want to keep waking Bill up if . . . you know."  
  
"Yeah, I do know," Andrew replied. "Which is why I'd rather you weren't alone. You don't want to get lost in your nightmares, Gary. They can be hell to come back from."  
  
*******************  
  
By the time Bill got to the cabin, Gary was already in bed, his face to the wall. As quietly as he could, the younger man made his own preparations for turning in. By the time he was ready, Gary was already mumbling in his sleep.   
  
"Earl," he murmured. "Hang on. H-help's on . . . way." Gary's voice sank to an unintelligible moaning sound. "No. You gotta . . . gotta stay w-with me!" Again his voice drifted down until the words slurred beyond recognition. "M-Marley? N-no. Go 'way! Won't l-let you kill . . . Moth to . . . flame."  
  
Fascinated Bill pulled up closer to the bed, hoping to be able to make out a few more words. In the darkness, he didn't notice that the drawer in Gary's nightstand was cracked open just the tiniest bit. Nor did he hear the muted whirr of the voice-activated tape recorder inside.  
  
*****************  
  
"Why did you let me fall?" the raggedy older man accused in a whimpering tone. "I was so afraid! Why didn't you save me?"  
  
Gary backed away from the pathetic figure crouched before him. The huddled figure reached out imploringly with one weathered hand. He could not face the accusation in those gentle, fear filled eyes. "I tried," he answered, pleading for understanding. "I really did try! I-I couldn't hold on! You . . . you were too heavy."  
  
Suddenly, he was standing in the doorway of a familiar office. The name on the open door read Harry Hawkes, Editor In Chief. Nervously, Gary stepped in the rest of the way. A high-backed office chair was facing away from him, only the top of a dark head peeking over the edge. Gary reached out with a trembling hand to turn the chair. Harry Hawkes sat there, eyes open in a fixed gaze, a tiny trickle of blood trailing down from the bullet hole in his forehead. As Gary stared in horrified fascination, the dead eyes snapped to life.  
  
"Why didn't you know?" the sepulchral voice asked. "You knew about the bomb. Why didn't you know about this? Why was I allowed to die?"  
  
"I don't know," Gary moaned. "I don't understand how it works! I don't know why I can save some, and not others!"  
  
"Why did I have to die?"  
  
"I don't . . . .   
  
. . . know!"  
  
Now he was back in that derelict building, trying to staunch the flow of blood as Earl Candy lay dying.  
  
"Don't let me die," the injured man pleaded. "Please, don't let me die."  
  
"Just hang in there," Gary urged. "Don't give up on me, Earl. Do you hear me! Don't you give up on me!"   
  
"Why?" the injured man asked . . . as he breathed his last.  
  
"Earl?" Gary shook the limp figure. "Earl! Don't do this! It didn't happen this way! Earl!"  
  
"You saved her from me," the spectral figure of John Hernandez accused. "Why couldn't you save me from the train? Wasn't I worth it? Did you think I was 'just an animal,' too?"  
  
"No," Gary sobbed. "It happened so fast! And I had the boys in my arms . . . I-it was over so . . . quick!"  
  
"Why didn't you save me?"  
  
Gary was back in the train yard, but night had fallen. A few scattered street lamps provided the only illumination. He walked over to the stocky figure lying face down in the dirt. Kneeling down, he cautiously reached out and grabbed one shoulder. The figure flopped over on its back with a suddeness that sent the young man sprawling. Dead eyes glared out of a bloodless face as Frank Scanlon rose to his feet.  
  
"You knew!" he accused. "You could've stopped me if you really wanted to. But I was digging too close, wasn't I? You had to let me die!"  
  
"Th-that's not true!" Gary insisted. "I did try to warn you! But you wouldn't listen! Y-you had to be 'The Dog With A Bone!' I tried t-to call you! But you never answered! I even warned the police that you were in danger, and they wouldn't listen! Until it was too . . .  
  
. . . late?"  
  
He now stood on the Navy Pier, the giant Ferris wheel directly in front of him. A tiny voice called out to him from somewhere above. Looking up, Gary was horrified to see a small child clinging to one of the seats at the top of the wheel for dear life. Without thinking, he began the arduous climb upwards, all the while entreating the child to 'hang on. I'm coming!' A strong wind kicked up as he scaled the skeletal structure. The higher he climbed, the stronger it blew. By the time he reached what proved to be a little girl of about seven years, the wind was almost gale force. For a moment, he could only cling to the metal arm of the gargantuan device, trying to anchor the child and shield her from the full effects of the wind. Finally, keeping his eyes focused on the face of the frightened girl, he prepared to make his descent.  
  
"Hang on to me," he said into her ear, trying to be heard above the storm. "Don't let go, no matter what!" The child simply nodded, burying her face against his chest as she tightened her grip. Slowly, placing hands and feet with utmost caution, Gary started down.  
  
The wind gusted harder and faster with each downward step. By the time they reached the hub, it was all Gary could do to hang on! Keeping the child wrapped tightly in his strong embrace, Gary clung to the steel spoke and prayed for a miracle.  
  
"Please, God!" he entreated. "At least save the kid! If you can only save one of us, save the kid! I'm begging you! Don't let her die! Please!"  
  
*****************  
  
"Ple . . ." Gary sat up, his heartfelt entreaty only half voiced. Looking around, he saw Bill seated next to his bed, one hand frozen in the air mere inches from his shoulder. "Oh," he murmured in a small voice. "S-sorry."  
  
"S'okay, man," Bill shrugged. "Sounds like you've had more than Savalas on your mind, lately. Want to talk about it?"  
  
Gary silently shook his head as he lay back in the bed. Scrubbing at his face, he wasn't surprised to discover fine beads of sweat standing out on his skin. "Not a lot to say," he sighed. "I just have this . . . knack for landing in the thick of things. Sometimes I can do some good. You know, help someone. Maybe even save a life or two. S-sometimes . . .sometimes all I can do is make sure they d-don't die . . . alone. M-most of the time, I'm trying to convince people I'm not . . . 'delusional', which is everyone's favorite term, when they want to be polite."  
  
"So you're haunted by . . ." Bill ventured.  
  
"The ones I couldn't save," Gary whispered tonelessly. "F-fortunately, th-that's a small number. But each one . . . they matter. E-even if they don't matter to anyone else, they matter to me."  
  
"That's a heavy load to carry all alone," the young college student sympathized. "Is there anyone back home you can talk to? Friends? Family?"  
  
"I dump on them enough as it is," Gary replied with a shake of his head. "No, this is something I have to deal with on my own. I just have to look in the right place and the answers will be there." He pulled the covers back up and over his chest. "I'm okay now, Bill," he sighed. "You can try to get some sleep."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Positive," Gary told him with a tired smile. "They only come out to play once a night, it seems. I'll be fine."  
  
Bill backed his chair away from the bed slowly. "If you're positive . . ."  
  
"I already have a mother, Bill," Gary gently chided the younger man. "She might take exception to my giving someone else her job. Good night."  
  
A few seconds later, he heard Bill lever himself into bed. Less than five minutes passed before he heard the kid's breathing settle into a regular rhythm. Gary laid there, hands clasped behind his head, listening to the soft susurration of his roommate's slumber. For him, sleep was to prove much more elusive.  
  
***************  
  
It was a bleary-eyed barkeep that showed up at the breakfast table the next morning. Gary sat next to Jean, picking over his food in a desultory manner. Hailey sat directly across from him. It was impossible for her not to notice his red-rimmed eyes, or the dark smudges beneath them. A feeling of guilt swept over her as she realized that she was most likely the cause of his present state. She glanced over at Bill, catching him staring back at her. He nodded his head in Gary's direction, then shook it in a warning to leave the other man alone. Frustrated, the reporter lowered her gaze to her plate and stabbed her fork into her omelet.  
  
The main topic of conversation that morning was the still absent 'senior class.' Raphael had reported in that morning by radio. The lame horse was doing well and should be ready to travel in a couple of days. Meanwhile, they were having a wonderful time fishing and swimming in the tiny grotto they had found.  
  
Gary listened without comment, excusing himself after only a few token bites. As soon as he had disappeared from the dining room, the conversation shifted.   
  
"He looks like death warmed over," Doug sighed. "Didn't he get any sleep last night, Bill?"  
  
"I don't think so," Bill replied dejectedly. "He had a really bad one last night. From the sound of it, Savalas isn't the only ghost haunting him. No, Hailey, I'm not going into detail. Most of it was just disjointed ramblings, anyway."  
  
Andrew looked over at Monica, concern written plainly on his face. "I was just thinking," he told her in a near whisper. "The nightmares started that first night, after I showed him 'The Wall.' Could that have anything to do with it?"  
  
"You mean his fear of heights?" Monica murmured. "It's possible. Nightmares are often triggered by stress. If that's the case, the simplest solution would be to excuse him from having to climb."  
  
The blonde counselor shook his head. "I can't do that," he sighed. "Strict 'orders' to help him learn to deal with it. We'll just have to keep a closer eye on him."  
  
"That may be hard to do," Monica responded sadly. "There's the other one we're here to help, as well. I still don't know what we're watching for."  
  
"We'll know when the time comes," Andrew assured her. "Til then, just keep the faith."  
  
*****************  
  
Gary spent most of the morning trying to avoid everyone else. True, he had promised Andrew that he would talk over his dreams with the group that night, but he hoped to postpone it for as long as possible. He asked the stable hand to help him saddle Sunshine, his docile mount. He then went for a long, long ride. Gary knew that he should be in the gym, climbing that blasted rope, but he felt the need for fresh air and privacy. Mostly privacy.  
  
The young barkeep let his horse choose her path for a while, meandering back and forth among the forest trails. Eventually, they ended up on a bluff overlooking a spectacular view. They paused there, horse and rider, staring out at the western horizon, each thinking their own thoughts.   
  
'It's not fair,' Gary mused silently. 'Why does every misstep, every mistake, have to keep coming back to haunt me? Please, God! Let me have just a little peace?'  
  
"Penny for your thoughts."  
  
"Thought West Coast prices were a buck fifty," Gary replied without turning.   
  
"Gimme a break," Bill chuckled. "I'm barely getting by on a scholarship."  
  
"Oh, well," Gary shrugged. "Just wishing things were . . . different. That, just once, I could catch a break. Preferably one that didn't involve a bone."  
  
Bill let his bay gelding saunter up next to Gary's mare. "Ouch," he murmured sympathetically. "That's right, I remember you saying you broke that leg, too. Bummer."  
  
Gary shrugged, never taking his eyes from the incredible vista before him. "S'okay," he replied. "Never felt a thing after the first few minutes. Except in that dream. Were you looking for me?"  
  
"Yeah," the younger man sighed. "Andrew and Monica are calling a special session for this morning. They feel like that one last night was . . . well . . ."  
  
"Hmm," was Gary's only comment. With a sigh, he turned Sunshine back the way they had come. For several minutes the two rode in silence. "You should know," he finally said, "I asked Andrew if they had someplace else I could sleep."  
  
Bill shot him a startled look. "Why? Don't you trust me?" he asked.  
  
"Oh, no," Gary was quick to assure him. "That's not it. I just thought that . . .well . . . you need your sleep, too. I mean . . . no sense in both of us losing out."  
  
"Ah, that's no big deal," Bill shrugged dismissively. "I'm majoring in anthropology. I'm used to pulling marathon all-nighters," he explained. "You're only costing me a coupla hours a night."  
  
********************  
  
Bill and Gary entered the clearing to see a strange car in the driveway. Jean was sitting beside it, talking to a young man with sun bleached hair. The young man looked bored, kicking at the gravel drive with one sandaled foot. Jean, on the other hand, was talking animatedly, her face glowing with pleasure.  
  
"Who's that?" Gary asked curiously.  
  
Bill looked over at the young couple with a grimace. "That's Jean's boyfriend," he muttered dismally. "Darren Hollister. A real winner."  
  
It was hard to miss the sarcasm in the younger man's voice. "You don't sound too thrilled with this guy," Gary mused.  
  
"He treats her like dirt," Bill snorted. "Has her practically at his beck and call every time he shows up. You'd think he was the one in a wheelchair instead of her. I wish he'd leave her alone. She deserves better."  
  
Something in the younger man's voice caught Gary's attention. He looked over at Bill with wry amusement, watching him watching Jean.  
  
"How old are you, Bill?" he asked suddenly.  
  
"Huh? Nineteen," the student replied in a puzzled tone. "Why?"  
  
"Oh, nothing," Gary responded casually, fighting to hide a tiny grin. "Nothing at all."  
  
*************************  
  
As they gathered in the dining room once more, Gary felt as if every eye in the place were on him. Which was probably true. Even Tess had pulled up a chair.  
  
"So, um, h-how should we start?" Gary asked nervously. "Sh-should I just . . . tell you what happened or is it gonna be, like, you ask and I answer?"  
  
"Why don't you start with when you first knew Savalas was in your apartment?" Hailey asked in a surprisingly gentle tone.   
  
Gary eyed the reporter warily. "This is all off the record?" he asked hesitantly. "I'm serious, Hailey. I can't go through that again."  
  
"Andrew explained what you went through before," she told him. "For that, I'm sorry. This time, I promise, nothing goes to print without your direct approval."  
  
"Th-that's the best I can ask for, I guess," he murmured. Hesitantly, at first, Gary began to describe how the fugitive had surprised him while he was in the tub. As the others listened without comment, he told of his feelings of shame and helplessness in finding himself sprawled utterly defenseless and exposed before his enemy. Of being forced to crawl on his belly like a crippled animal as Savalas watched in amusement. He described the beatings, the way the cuff bit into the flesh of his wrist until he could no longer feel his hand. He admitted to being angry at the callousness of his captor, at his cruelty and the way he took so much pleasure in watching Gary's pain and discomfort. He went on to tell them of getting the upper hand, if only briefly. Told his listeners of a sense of relief mixed with the pain of returning circulation in his injured hand. His voice cracked as he related his struggle to get back in his chair, only to find that his injured wrist would not support his weight.  
  
"Th-then . . . he was on me again," Gary sighed. "It'd gotten quiet, but I was so busy trying to get in that damned chair, I didn't notice . . . until he slammed that gun against my head. After that, things got a little . . . ugly. He put that . . . cuff back on my wrist, so tight I thought I was gonna pass out. Then he hit it with the gun and kicked me in the gut hard enough that I, um, I wished I'd skipped supper. He cleaned up th-the mess, then started telling me all the things h-he wanted to do to me. Got one of my knives from the kitchen a-and started tracing out p-places he planned to, um, to work on." Gary stared down at his hands as he recalled the look of insane glee in the fugitive's eyes. The right one worried at the leather band as if it detected an itch that refused to be scratched. "I sorta told him to go to hell and he, um, he dropped the knife to beat the crap out of me. I palmed the . . . the knife."  
  
The others remained silent as they sensed he was coming to the conclusion of his tale.  
  
"I, um, I don't know what I was thinking," he went on. "I'm not really sure I was thinking at all. A-anyway, I . . . I sorta . . . laughed in his face."  
  
"You what?" Eleanor exclaimed.  
  
"I laughed at him," Gary shrugged helplessly. "H-he was being so . . . so melodramatic. Like a villain in one of those really old B-movies. Made him so mad at me, he dropped his guard, and I stabbed the knife into h-his gun-hand. He drop . . . dropped it and I tried to keep it out of his reach. I even yanked o-on that damned cuff hard enough to hit him w-with the wheelchair. B-but that only made him fall on top of me a-and I only h-had one hand to . . . to hold onto that . . . then it w-went off and I felt th-this pain in my sh-shoulder." He swallowed convulsively as all the pain and horror of that night flooded his memory. "I knew . . . knew that I was losing, that he was going to . . . to kill me. But I couldn't let go of that . . . damned . . . gun! Th-then . . . my hand . . . slipped."  
  
Tears flowed unrestrained down his cheeks as he once more saw the shocked look in Savalas' eyes. Saw the trickle of blood drooling from the corner of his mouth.  
  
"I d-didn't mean to k-kill him," he murmured in a choked voice. "I just . . . just wanted to . . . to stop him." He paused a moment, taking a deep shuddering breath, to get his voice, and his emotions, under better control. "His . . . his body sorta . . . shuddered . . . and he got this look in his eyes. L-like he wasn't seeing me anymore. Th-then this little drop o-of . . ." He traced a line from the left corner of his mouth. "I, ahm, I could feel this sticky . . . wet . . . I could feel it spreading across m-my chest. He, um, he started to say something, then he just . . . l-like the air going out of a balloon, he went . . . limp. I started screaming, then. But I guess no one heard us over the music a-and all the noise downstairs. D-downstairs," he gulped. "H-help was so close, all I had to do was g-get to that damned . . . phone!"  
  
Gary buried his face in his hands, unable to look at the circle of silent faces. Too choked up to even try to speak, he fought not to break down and sob openly. That would be too much.  
  
"I c-could f-feel his heart . . . beating against m-mine. Could feel . . . feel it getting faster and f-faster. Then it sorta . . . s-stuttered. F-finally he, um, gave this r-rattling . . . sigh. And he . . . he was . . . gone." Gary paused to wipe the tears from his face before finishing. "I don't remember much after that. Just . . . just praying. For what, I don't know. The, um, the next clear memory I have is waking up in the h-hospital . . . again. And them telling me that . . . that it'd be weeks, maybe, before I'd have full use of my hands . . . again. Th-that I'd have to have help j-just to feed myself . . . again. Somehow, it seemed . . . as bad . . . as humiliating as that felt, it seemed . . . right. I didn't deserve any l-less for . . . for what I'd . . . I'd done."  
  
"Just what had you done?" Doug asked softly. "Other than defending yourself? There's not a single one of us here who would've done any different. Did he really leave you any other choice?"  
  
"I'll never know, now," Gary sighed brokenly. "I can't go back and do it over. Even if I could, I still can't think of anything I could've done differently." He paused, staring down at his hands which now lay upon his knees, the fingers opening and closing as if of their own accord. "Th-the worst . . . I couldn't . . . I couldn't get to m-my hands . . . t-to wash the blood off."  
  
"But surely they . . . oh." Jean sat back, tears springing to her eyes, as she suddenly understood what he was saying.   
  
Hailey cleared her throat, and every eye shifted to her. Every eye but Gary's. He was still so lost in his misery, he had not even heard her.  
  
"S-so, " she began hesitantly, well aware that she would be crucified if she caused this gentle, soft-spoken man any further grief. "So why don't you want to tell any of this to the press?" the reporter asked. "Are you afraid they'll twist it around, make you the villain?"  
  
Slowly, without looking up, Gary nodded his head. "Th-that's part of it," he sighed. "I've . . . I've been accused of things before, and I've learned the hard way th-that it's not easy to change public opinion. P-people that've known me s-since I was a baby still think I had something to do with that 'murder-for-hire' scheme of Savalas'. I c-couldn't even stay at my parents' house f-for Christmas. F-friends and n-neighbors kept whispering things when they thought I couldn't hear, or calling to tell the police what a t-terrible reputation I had, or of some God-awful thing I was supposed to've done that day. It got to . . . to the point that we . . . we couldn't even sit down to a meal without the phone ringing fifty times to report me for one thing or another, and I-I hadn't left the house in days! S-so, um, I went back to . . . to Chicago, and tried to sleep in m-my loft."  
  
Gary rubbed the back of his head, a rueful half-smile playing across his tired features. "Th-that wasn't . . . the nightmares started the minute my head hit the pillow," he sighed. "So, um, I tried to find a hotel room. Finally found one, only to have some wino spill his bottle all over me on my way to get my stuff out of the van. Th-then I got mugged."  
  
Hesitantly, Gary told of waking up in a cell, head splitting, sick to his stomach, and totally disoriented. He went on to describe the state he was in when someone finally realized that he had been injured, and the humiliation of knowing he'd been found that way by someone he cared about.   
  
"T-turns out this little . . . out of the way station . . . they still had a flyer on me f-from when I was . . . on the run," he told them. "A-at first they just thought I was some drunk. Wh-when they found out . . . found out who I was, they contacted the man listed as heading up the task force. He sent the other . . . other cop who'd been there that night to 'bail' me out. I sorta remember hearing her voice coming down the . . . But I must've blacked out again before they reached me. Anyway, things kinda went downhill from there."  
  
"My God!" Bill exclaimed quietly. "You were already lower than the floor of the ocean! How much worse could it get?"  
  
"A lot worse," Gary sighed. "And there aren't enough threats or promises in the world to drag the rest of it out of me. A-anyway, that's why I want all this to just . . . go away. Let it die a natural death. If I try to give my side, all it'll do is stir up interest that I'd rather avoid. I don't want people staring a-and pointing as I go down the street. I don't need whispered comments and accusations following me everywhere I go. I just . . . just want to live whatever kind of life I can the best that I can. Is that too much to ask?" This last was directed at Hailey, who, at least, had the good grace to look chastened.  
  
"No," she replied quietly. "It's not. Please forgive me, Gary. I'd forgotten just how single-minded my kind can be in pursuit of a story. We lose track, sometimes, of the lives we affect with ill-chosen words or phrases. If you don't want this to go to print, then it's a dead issue. I promise."  
  
Gary closed his eyes briefly, then flashed her a shy smile. "Thank you."  
  
"So, how have you been handling it?" Doug asked. "You mentioned nightmares."  
  
"That was a given," Gary sighed. "That, the flashbacks and all the other 'Post Traumatic Stress Disorder' goodies. I went through the whole shtick. Really wallowed in self-pity for a while. Almost drowning, and my Dad getting pneumonia saving me, didn't help."  
  
He quickly told them, in as few words as possible, about the disastrous outing that had almost ended in a triple tragedy. The others tried to press him for details, but he dug in his heels on that one. How could he admit that he had been stupid enough to 'dive in' after that kid with both arms incapacitated? He did admit that he went even deeper into a black depression.  
  
"What brought you out of it?" Eleanor asked. "Did they give you therapy in the hospital?"  
  
"N-not exactly." Gary had to fight back a grin at the memory. "They sicced Polly on me. She's, um, she's one of the x-ray techs at Cook County. And she's . . . a little different. Her southern accent puts your's to shame, Tess. After the drowning incident, I'd completely given up. Then she comes bursting into my room and . . ." A slow flush crawled up his face, belying his crooked grin. "Let's just say that Polly is seldom at a loss for words. She made me face what everyone else had already been telling me, that Savalas' death was an accident. Then, um, sh-she told me it was time to . . . to 'give up the throne,' is the way she put it."  
  
"The throne?" Bill asked. "What did that mean?"  
  
Then a red-faced Gary had to explain about her referring to him as 'King of the Pity-Pot,' and exactly what that meant. "So, um, the next time you want to bring somebody out of a funk," he told his giggling and guffawing audience, "try that one on them."  
  
"That is nicest way I've ever heard of tellin' someone they're full of horse hockey," Doug laughed, wiping tears from his eyes. "Lord, I need to meet this woman!" He sat back in his chair, trying to get serious again as he looked at Gary. "So, are you okay, now? You have Hailey's word that none of this goes to print in any fashion, and our word that it never leaves this room. Is that enough?"  
  
Gary looked around at the ring of expectant faces, Bill and Jean still fighting back a case of the giggles. He decided that he could trust these people who shared a predicament similar to his own. "I think so," he nodded. "Now, if Andrew would let me off the hook on this rock climbing deal, I could really relax."  
  
"Not in this lifetime," Andrew smiled. "You will climb that wall before you leave here."  
  
"Killjoy," Gary mumbled good-naturedly. "You better give Bill some earplugs, then. 'Cause if I stop talking in my sleep, I'm liable to start snoring. And I'm talking serious noise pollution here!"  
  
This brought another round of good-natured ribbing, which ended as Bill complained of having 'worked up an appetite.'  
  
"Good!" Tess slapped her thigh as she stood up. "Now that the 'Inquisition' is over, who's in the mood for hot apple pie?"  
  
There was a chorus of 'Me!' as everyone spun their chairs and made a beeline for the dining room door. Everyone but Gary. As the room cleared, he moved over to the window where he sat staring out at the tree-lined enclosure.  
  
"It's fresh and hot from the oven, Gary," Tess said from behind him.  
  
Gary turned just enough to flash her a sad, tight-lipped smile. "Confession may be good for the soul," he murmured, "but it's hell on the stomach. I'm just not hungry, Tess. Save me a piece for later?"  
  
"If I can snag a piece from that pack of piranhas," she promised. "You gonna just sit in here by yourself, sugar?"  
  
"No," Gary sighed. "I was hoping to slip out for another ride while Andrew was busy with that pie," he admitted. "It's just too pretty of a day to be cooped up indoors. And I really don't want to climb that rope right now."  
  
Tess gave him a motherly pat on the shoulder as she turned to leave. "I'll talk him into giving you the day off," she promised. "And I'll put your pie in the warmer."  
  
"Thanks, Tess," the young barkeep grinned. He gave her a jaunty wave as he headed out the front door. As he made his way to the stables, he saw a green Ford sedan coming up the drive. The car stopped directly in front of the administration building and only a few feet from Gary. The driver turned out to be a middle-aged man with an athletic build and dark blonde hair lightly streaked with gray. His passenger was a petit, slender woman with dark auburn hair. Gary immediately noticed how much she looked like the youngest member of their group.  
  
"Excuse me," the man said as he approached Gary. "Can you tell me where we might find our daughter, Jean Phillips?"  
  
"Sure," Gary replied. He pointed back the way he had come. "She's in the dining room with the others. If you hurry, there might still be some pie left." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Gary Hobson, by the way."   
  
The older man took his hand in a firm grasp. "Harold Phillips," he said by way of introduction. "My wife, Jeannette. You weren't here when we brought Jeannie up week before last, were you?"  
  
Gary shook his head with a rueful smile. "Just got here a few days ago," he told them. "Now I'm having to make up for lost time." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "You'd better hurry or there won't be any pie left. Tell Tess she can split that piece she was saving for me. It's apple, by the way. And Tess makes killer pies."  
  
"Then we'd better hurry," Jeannette Phillips smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Hobson."  
  
"Call me Gary," he replied as the couple went toward the dining room. Feeling better than he had in days, he continued on his way to the stables. It really was a beautiful day.  
  
***************  
  
Hailey was almost finished with her pie when Jean's parents walked in. They made straight for their daughter, coming up behind her and surprising her with a 'group hug.' The reporter smiled as the young girl's face split into a delighted grin. The couple then greeted the others briefly, saying that they had already met the 'newcomer,' Mr. Hobson, before retreating to the other side of the room to talk in private.  
  
At the mention of Gary's name, Hailey remembered the tape recorder she had hidden in his room a couple of days before. It was still there! How could she have forgotten? Oh, God! What if he found it? Looking around, she noticed that everyone else was engrossed in discussing the sad, but incredible tale that Gary had related to them. As quietly as she could, Hailey left the table and headed for the door.  
  
She had to retrieve that recorder before Gary found it!  
  
****************  
  
Sunshine nuzzled Gary's chest as she was led up to the ramp. "Hey, girl," he murmured, giving her nose a brisk rub. "Ready for another ride?" The palomino gently bumped her head against his chest, as if in agreement. "Good girl," Gary laughed. He let the groom get her into position as he ascended to the platform. In just a little over a minute, he was secure in the saddle and ready to go. But where did he want to go? As he tried to decide, Gary let Sunshine wander through the heart of the main compound.   
  
As they passed through the center of the camp, Gary noticed that the door to his and Bill's cabin was open. It had been closed when he left the dining room. Puzzled, he let Sunshine sidle up towards the cabin. Through the open window, he saw Hailey rummaging around in his night table. A chill sweat broke out along Gary's spine as he wondered what in the world she could be looking for.  
  
Picking up on her rider's sudden feelings of distress, Sunshine began to prance nervously. Gary gripped the reins tighter, holding her in place with little effort. He could think of only one reason for the reporter to be going through his things, and he didn't like it one bit.  
  
**************  
  
Hailey finally found the tiny tape recorder where it had slid to the back of the drawer. Retrieving the incriminating device, she tucked it inside her shirt, and then gently pushed the drawer closed. With a sigh of relief, she turned and headed for the door. The moment she got back to her cabin, she would destroy the tape without listening to it. She had given Gary her word and, against all her journalistic instincts, she intended to keep it. If even half of what he had told them was true, the man had already been through more heartbreak than most people endured in a lifetime! No way was she going to be the one to . . .  
  
She froze, chair sitting half in and half out of the door. Gary sat atop the nervous palomino, staring down at her with a stricken expression.   
  
"I-it's not what you think," she stammered. "Gary, I . . ."  
  
"You what?" Gary asked, his voice so tight it cracked. "What did you hide in my room, Hailey? What did you just take out?" he hissed. He stared accusingly down at the rectangular bulge in her shirt pocket. "I trusted you!" With, for him, unusual roughness, he jerked on the reins and slapped Sunshine on the rump, sending the skittish palomino leaping ahead into a full gallop!  
  
"Gary! Wait!" Hailey shouted desperately. "It's not what you think!" It was no use. Gary was already out of sight. Oh, God! What had she done? Frantically, she propelled herself toward the main building. Andrew. She had to tell Andrew what had happened! He was the only one who could possibly reach Gary in time to stop him from doing something stupid.  
  
In her haste and despair, Hailey failed to notice a distraught Jean, who was leaving the main building by the side door, headed for the stables.  
  
******************  
  
Gary had no idea how long or how far he had ridden before a low limb almost swept him from the saddle. He couldn't even recall choosing a direction. Reining the sweat soaked mare in with more care than when he had prodded her earlier, Gary looked around to get his bearings. He had absolutely no idea where he was. Nothing looked familiar, yet it all looked the same.  
  
'Damn her!' he thought angrily. 'Damn her!' She had sat there, looked him straight in the eye and promised him that she was going to drop the story! She had looked right at him and lied! And he had believed her! When was he going to learn? No way would he ever trust another reporter! No way! Even Meredith had lied when it suited her. All the while saying how much she cared for him. Evidently it was a job requirement. Maybe it was part of the curriculum. 'How To Lie With A Straight Face.'   
  
Gary let out a long, shuddering sigh as he forced himself to calm down. Looking down, he saw Sunshine's tracks leading out from the camp. All he had to do was follow them back. No problem. Right. No problem. Then he had to confront Hailey and get that tape. 'Piece of cake,' he thought bitterly.   
  
Letting the nervous mare choose her own pace, Gary turned her back around the way they had come. In a few places, the ground was too hard to hold tracks. Usually, he had no trouble picking up the trail again. However, he finally came to a place where he was unable to find a clear track.   
  
For what must have been the better part of an hour, Gary circled the clearing, looking for some clue as to which direction they may have come. But either the ground was too hard, or he was the world's worst tracker.   
  
"Mrrowwr!"  
  
Gary looked down to see a familiar orange feline. "You and I need to have a talk, one of these days," he murmured under his breath. A little louder, he added, "You here to guide me home, fella?"  
  
The cat gave a rumbling purr as it rubbed its back against a tree.  
  
"Good," Gary sighed. "Cause I am totally lost! Lead on MacCat!"  
  
The cat took off through the dense undergrowth, moving just fast enough to keep ahead of the horse, and always picking the easiest path for the larger animal to follow. As soon as they were back on a clear trail, the cat disappeared.  
  
"I really wish he'd stop doing that," Gary grumbled, rubbing Sunshine's neck. "You won't run off and leave me, will you girl?" As if in answer, the palomino shook her head. "That's my girl," Gary laughed.   
  
Gradually, they worked their way through the lengthening shadows to a wide, rock strewn clearing which overlooked another bluff. The mountain seemed to have many such scenic places. He paused there a moment to admire the view, as well as to let his hurt and anger subside.   
  
Sunshine whickered as she sensed the presence of another horse. She was answered by a soft whinny off to his left. Looking around, Gary was surprised to see Jean sitting astride her pinto, Cochise, apparently lost in thought. As he slowly sauntered up, she wiped her face with a sleeve. She was crying!  
  
"Jean?" he called softly. "Are you okay?" He moved Sunshine up beside the smaller animal until the two horses could almost touch noses. "What are you doing out here so late?" he asked, noticing for the first time just how close the sun was to the horizon. "What am I doing out here so late?"  
  
Jean gave a short laugh that ended in a sniff at his startled expression. She then turned back to face the drop-off with a shuddering sigh. She still hadn't said a word.  
  
"Ah," Gary sighed. "I see. Boyfriend trouble."  
  
The teenager shot him a startled look. "How'd you know?"  
  
"You're fifteen," he shrugged. "At that age, I had my heart broken twice a week. Was that why your mom was looking so . . . well, nervous?"  
  
Jean nodded slowly. "Darren, that's his name, h-he told all his friends y-yesterday that he had this 'rich mark' lined up. That they'd be 'tying the knot' next week!" She turned a tear-streaked face on Gary. "I'm not rich," she told him. "And he n-never said a word of this to me wh-when he was h-here this morning!"  
  
"That's because he's a two-timing jerk," Gary stated flatly, "who's not worth the effort to spit in his eye. He was using you to feed his ego. To make him look good in front of decent people. 'Look at him. Isn't he so sweet to stick by that poor girl?'" he added bitterly. "It makes him look like a saint, and makes you look . . . needy. You've got way too much going for you to settle on a creep like that, Jean. There are guys out there that would take this Darren bozo apart if he so much as brought a tear to those pretty eyes. And not out of pity, either."  
  
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of the girl's mouth as she gave Gary a sideways look.  
  
"Ho-oh, no you don't!" Gary laughed. "You're talkin' to the 'Heart-Broke Kid,' remember? I've been this route too many times to let a-a pretty smile and a few tears send me over the top! Save that look for some poor sap who isn't old enough to be your father!"  
  
This brought a real smile and a soft laugh from the teary-eyed girl. "You're not that old, Gary," she teased, wiping her face on her sleeve once more. She maneuvered Cochise close enough so that she could lean over and give Gary a chaste kiss on the cheek. He leaned in to make it a little easier for her. "And you're very sweet. Thank you. I don't know what I was thinking when I came out here. I was just so . . . so hurt and angry. I-I wanted to die, it hurt so bad. When Mom showed me a picture of . . . of Darren with this . . . this blonde hussy, I couldn't believe it, at first. I didn't want to believe it."  
  
"I didn't want to believe it about my ex-wife and my ex-boss, either," Gary agreed with a slow nod. "Something like that . . . you can either let it eat away at you, like I did for awhile, or you can let it go. And, believe you me, letting go is hard. B-but you're strong, Jean. A lot stronger than most people would think, just looking at you. Guys like Darren . . . all they see is the chair. They don't see the steel it takes to ride it. And they don't look for all the other qualities that make you ten times more human than he'll ever be. You've got strength, compassion, heart . . . Don't give this jerk a second thought. He's not . . ." The words caught in his throat, and he looked away as a bitter flood of memories washed over him.  
  
"Worth it?" Jean finished for him gently. "You've been told that before, haven't you?"  
  
"O-once or twice," he murmured, looking away. "Especially since . . ." He absently rubbed his right leg. "There's this lady back home. I thought . . . maybe . . . maybe we had something. But she blows hot and cold so fast, I feel like I'm in a tornado half the time. She made it pretty clear at our last . . . encounter . . . that she only saw me as a . . . a warm body. People need more than that to make it work. I need more than that. Don't sell yourself short, Jean. And don't settle for what someone like Darren is willing to give you. Promise me that."  
  
"I promise," Jean smiled. She turned her horse away from the bluff. "Suddenly, I'm hungry. Don't you think we should be heading back?"  
  
"That's what I've been trying to do," Gary smiled ruefully. "I, um, I hate to admit it, but . . . I'm sorta . . . lost."  
  
"Don't worry," the young girl laughed. "I'll get you . . ."  
  
Her sentence went unfinished as a rattling 'whirrrr' startled her mount, causing him to rear and buck. Alarmed, Sunshine also reared, tossing an unprepared Gary to the rocky ground. The breath was knocked out of him as he hit the hard-packed dirt. Almost simultaneously, he heard, more than felt, something impact against his right thigh just as a bright flash of pain shot through his head. As the lights went out, Gary was almost sure he heard a shrill cry fading in the distance.  
  
*****************  
  
It was night once more and Gary was listening to the howling of the wind blowing in off the lake. If he concentrated, he could hear the whisper of voices. Soft voices, reproachful voices. They called his name, asking 'why?'   
  
"Why not me?" they asked. "Wasn't I worthy? Was I too evil? Were you too scared?"  
  
Faceless figures lined his path, pointing accusing fingers at him as he passed. Dark figures that whispered reproving phrases of guilt, promising retribution. They formed a gauntlet leading to the huge carousel. Slowly, Gary walked the narrow corridor, trying to avoid the grasping hands that plucked at his clothing. As with the Ferris wheel in his last dream, the closer he got, the louder and stronger the wind blew. By the time he reached the brightly lighted conveyance, the wind and the voices had begun to merge into murmuring confusion.  
  
The brightly painted animals snarled, smiled, or simply bared their teeth, eyes wide open in various attitudes of fear or surprise. As Gary stepped up on the circular platform, the device started with a lurch that would have thrown him to his knees if he had not grabbed the reins of a black stallion. He hung on for dear life as the carousel began to spin faster and faster.   
  
"Why?" the voices cried. At first, he could almost make out the differences between one voice and another. Could separate Savalas from Hernandez. Scanlon from Romick. Brigatti's voice stood out among them all. 'Not worth it! Not that big of a catch! Such a jerk!"  
  
As the enormous ride picked up speed, the wind became louder and faster too. The voices blurred until they blended with the howl of the wind. To Gary's surprise, the wheel began to shrink. Not in height, but in diameter. The spaces between the figures narrowed until they almost touched. Then the inner ring of animals disappeared. Still the wind grew louder and more shrill. Gary mounted the ebony figure, hanging on to the pole that thrust upwards from its spine in an effort to keep from being blown away.  
  
"Help me," a tiny voice cried. "Please, Gary! Help me!"  
  
Gary looked around frantically for the owner of that voice. He knew that voice!   
  
"Help me! Please, help me!"  
  
There! Hanging onto the neck of the swan! The little girl! The one from the Ferris wheel! What was she doing here? The child was losing her grip, in danger of being blown away!  
  
"I'm coming," he called out to her. "Hang on! Please! J-just hang on!" Could she even hear him over the shrieking of the wind?  
  
He eased out of his secure seat on the horse, meaning to work his way over to the frightened child. No sooner had his feet hit the boards than the merry-go-round gave another lurch, spinning faster than ever. Gary could no longer tell the difference between the shrieking of the gale force wind and the screeching voices. All he could focus on was that lone voice, calling his name in desperation. Frantically, he lurched from horse, to tiger, to lion, trying to reach the frightened child. "Please, God," he prayed. "Let me reach her in time. Please!"  
  
Just a few more feet. Two more painted figures between him and his goal. "I'm begging you, God," he implored. "Don't let her die!" He rounded the last form, a golden palomino, to see that the child was no longer a child. It was Jean! The petite redhead was dangling from the neck of the swan, feet and legs hanging over the edge of the platform, face twisted in fear.  
  
"I'm coming!" Gary screamed over the incessant shriek of the tempestuous winds. He started to repeat his call when he felt the wooden statue move under his hands. Startled, Gary grabbed onto the reins, as the shrill cry of the palomino rose in pitch until it rivaled the cacophony of the wind. The golden figure rose higher and higher, knocking Gary to the hardwood boards. It rose until it towered over him, then brought flashing hooves down straight for his unprotected head.  
  
*******************  
  
The golden mare brought her hooves down once more on the reptile which was coiled less than a foot from Gary's head. Dazed, he hung on to the reins as she pranced nervously around her bloody handiwork. Looking around, Gary tried to spy the other horse. Had he bolted? Did he carry Jean back towards the camp? Or had she been thrown, too?  
  
"Gary! Help me!"  
  
"Answers that question," Gary mumbled. Laboriously, he rolled onto his stomach and began the arduous trek to the edge of the bluff. Jean sounded as if she were just below the lip of the drop-off. His shoulders felt sore from his impact with the hard-packed dirt, and his head felt as if it were about to come off. Still, he crawled forward, clawing his way, inch by agonizing inch, over the rocky ground towards his goal. "J-Jeannie?" he called as he neared the bluff. "Answer me, Jean! Please, answer me!"  
  
"Down here!" she called back. "Thank, God! I thought you were dead!"  
  
Gary looked over the edge, immediately wishing he hadn't. The moment of vertigo, combined with the throbbing pain in his head, almost sent him reeling back into the darkness once more. Blinking both into abeyance, he tried again. He saw Jean hanging on to a tree growing almost straight out from the side of the cliff. It looked to be firmly rooted. Still, she couldn't hang there forever. About fifteen feet separated her from his position at the top.  
  
"Let me see what I've got to work with," he told her. "Don't go away."  
  
"Ha ha," she replied sarcastically. "You are so funny!"  
  
With a wan smile, Gary pushed himself back from the edge. What did he have to work with? He looked over at the palomino who was now placidly munching on a few scattered blades of grass. A coil of rope was standard equipment, it seemed. Did he have enough to reach her? He inched his way over and grasped the reins once more, using them to slap Sunshine on her left shoulder, as Andrew had shown him. The docile mare obediently knelt until he could slide onto her back. Once she was upright again, he eased her closer to the cliff, stopping when he figured they were close enough. He shook out the rope, securing one end to the saddle horn. The other end he fashioned into a loop large enough for Jean to slip over her shoulders. This he tossed over the edge about where he thought the girl should be.  
  
"Jean," he called out. "Can you see the rope?"  
  
"Yes," was her immediate reply. "It's too short! Can you lower it another . . . five feet?"  
  
"Not and be able to tie it off," was his discouraging reply. Five feet. How could he get her another five feet? The only answer he could come up with sent a chill up his spine. But he had no other choice, and she was running out of time. He rapidly hauled the rope back up, slipping the noose over his own shoulders, securing it around his chest. Giving the signal to kneel once more, he slid from the mare's back the moment he could safely reach the ground.  
  
Was it his nerves making it so hard to breathe, or had he pulled the rope too tight? Never mind, he had to get moving. He slowly lowered himself over the edge, careful not to look down. If he froze, they were both dead. Gingerly, Gary eased himself down the rope until he reached the end.  
  
"Can you reach my legs?" he asked her, keeping his eyes glued to the cliff face.  
  
"If you stretch out your hand," she said from just a few feet to his right, "you can pull me up."  
  
Moving carefully, Gary glanced over to see that he was less than two feet from where Jean had pulled herself into a seated position on the branch. Between that, and the extra length gained by having Sunshine in a 'seated' position, they had gained enough that his body more than filled the gap. Gingerly, he reached out his hand to her. Moving with a grace as much inborn as from training, Jean grasped his hand and swung out in one fluid motion. A moment later, she clasped her free arm around his waist, clinging tightly as the sudden motion set them to swinging like a pendulum. They hung there like that until the swaying motion decreased enough for Gary to be able to open his eyes.  
  
"This is not good," he commented as a wave of dizziness swept over him. His breath was coming in short gasps now, and he was perspiring heavily. With grim determination, he grasped the rope and began hauling his double burden toward the top. It hadn't seemed this hard in the gym! Halfway up, he had to pause, wrapping the rope around his right arm to keep from slipping. His limbs were trembling from the effort he had expended thus far, and his head was swimming alarmingly.  
  
"C-can you make it th-the rest of the way?" he asked the girl.  
  
Jean eyed the five or six feet that remained. "No sweat," she told him. "Why? Are you . . . Oh my God, Gary! You're bleeding! Why didn't you say something?"  
  
"Wh-what good would that've done?" he gasped. "Just climb, would you please? My arms are really getting tired. Th-then you can get on S-Sunshine and h-haul me up."  
  
Without another word, the young gymnast scampered up the rope, quickly disappearing over the top. A few minutes later, the rope lurched upward a few feet, and then Gary felt himself slowly rising. He felt every bump, jar, and sway of the rope as it bit into his wrist. Keeping his eyes closed helped a little, but not much. By the time he reached the top his breathing had become labored, and his gorge was on the rise. It took all his strength to pull himself the rest of the way over to safety.   
  
Gary lay there, every muscle trembling with weakness. His head felt as if it were getting ready to burst from the pain. Fighting nausea and fatigue, he crawled forward a little more, and for some strange reason, his vision kept blurring.   
  
The moment Gary was on safe ground, Jean signaled Sunshine to kneel. Quickly, she slid down next to her injured companion. He seemed barely conscious. He was pale, sweaty, and was obviously having difficulty breathing. That could be attributed to his problem with heights. 'A panic reaction?' she thought. 'Or maybe it's from the head injury?'  
  
"What were you thinking?" she asked tearfully. "You had no business coming after me in the shape you're in! You should've left me there and gone for help!"  
  
"C-couldn't," he murmured, his speech slurring. "Lost, re-remember? Don' f-feel s'hot. Head h-hurts."  
  
"I don't wonder," Jean murmured. She gently probed the bloody lump on the back of his head, eliciting a painful grunt from her new friend. "That was a hell of a blow you took."  
  
"Watch your language," he grumbled good-naturedly. "You're too young to cuss."  
  
"In whose book?" she chuckled. Recalling her first-aid, even if it was a little late for some of it, she continued to check for injuries. His neck was most likely undamaged. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to make that climb. Ditto for his arms. Despite his difficulty breathing, there didn't seem to be any tenderness, or rigidity, in the ribs or abdomen. Relieved, she continued down to his legs, not really expecting to find anything. The best she could determine, his left leg seemed to be intact. Perhaps the head injury was the extent of his difficulties.  
  
Then she found the dark stain surrounding twin punctures in the material covering his right thigh. Quickly pulling out a pocket knife, she slit the tough denim to get a better look. Sure enough, she spotted two small punctures surrounded by a large bruise midway between thigh and knee. Blood oozed freely from the tiny wounds, indicating that a vein had been hit. Not good.  
  
"Gary, I have to go for help," she told the injured man. "The rope is still around your chest, so I'm going to use it to pull you back from the cliff. Then I have to leave you. It'll be dark before we get back, so please try not to move. Promise me."  
  
"P-promise," he murmured drowsily. "B-be careful. Dark s-soon."  
  
"Try to stay awake, Gary," Jean urged him, as she remounted. As soon as Sunshine was on her feet, Jean shortened the rope and snugged it around the saddle horn. Urging the docile mount forward, she slowly dragged Gary back until he was almost to the forest edge. There, she dropped the rope and turned the mare's nose for home, urging her into a brisk canter. She had less than an hour before it would be too dark to find her way back.  
  
*******************  
  
At first, Gary fought to stay awake, but the struggle proved too great. As the sun slipped closer to the horizon, the injured man slipped deeper into a darkness of a different sort.  
  
Was it his imagination, or did he hear a soft chuckle somewhere in the darkness?  
  
*******************  
  
He was back on the merry-go-round, spinning madly out of control. Both arms were clamped tightly about the neck of the same swan the child had been clutching before. Now, the child, Jean, was nowhere in sight. Where had she gone? Was she safe? Then he remembered. She had gone for help. Help. Yes, he definitely needed help. The fierce wind had become hot, scorching. It was so hot! It threatened to sear the flesh from his bones.   
  
The carousel continued to shrink in upon itself. The inner rings were all gone now, with only the outer ring remaining. Frightened, Gary had no idea which way to turn. If he moved inward, he might disappear along with the wooden figures. If he stayed where he was, he could suffer the same fate. Outward? What was beyond the edge of the spinning platform? Cautiously, he peered beyond the swirling mists and gale force winds. What he saw frightened him even more.  
  
Another carousel spun counterpoint to the one he was on. Clinging to a golden steed was the desperate form of Jean Phillips. The young gymnast was crouched low, clinging to her mount with a strength born of sheer panic. Both devices were flying through the air at an incredible speed and altitude. As frightened as he was of heights, Gary still looked for some way to reach the other carousel. 'There has to be something, anything, I can do to help her!' he prayed. He couldn't let her face this alone!  
  
'Let go,' a voice whispered in his mind. 'Let go of your fear.'  
  
"How?" Gary pleaded. "How do I do that?"  
  
'Have faith in me,' the voice murmured. 'I can keep you safe.'  
  
"What about her?" Gary asked, his eyes once more catching sight of the auburn-haired figure. "Can you save her, too?"  
  
'A choice must be made.'  
  
"Wh-what does that mean? What kind of choice?" Gary asked. "Tell me!"  
  
'A choice must be made,' the voice repeated.  
  
"What kind of choice?" Gary shouted. "What are my choices? Tell me! Is it 'live or die?' Or my life for hers?" No answer. "Is that it? My life for hers?"  
  
'A choice must be made!'  
  
A feeling of calm acceptance settled over Gary as he released his hold on the wooden figure. He thought that he understood, now. He stepped back until his feet balanced on the edge of the platform, one hand still holding one of the supports.  
  
"Then save her," he said grimly. And let himself fall.  
  
He had come full circle. Everything had begun with him riding a whirling vortex into oblivion. Once again he was clutched in the strong grip of the maelstrom, spinning deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness. Images flashed before him. Images from his fevered dreams, as well as harsh reality. Poignant scenes with his family and friends. Frightening views of death, mixed with feelings of extreme pain and frustration. Everything that he had seen, thought, or felt in the last seven months, whether good, bad or indifferent, flooded into his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. Overlaying it all was the enigmatic face of a certain orange feline.  
  
Finally, his mind could take no more as his consciousness rode the maelstrom into darkness. As his mind slipped into the abyss, he could hear a bitter howl of frustration. Someone was not pleased with his choice.  
  
******************  
  
"Wake up, Gary," a familiar voice gently urged. "No time to lie there like a log. C'mon, fella. Open those eyes."  
  
Slowly, painfully, Gary opened his eyes to see a figure dressed entirely in white kneeling next to him. The figure was bathed in a soft glow that settled as a halo about his head and shoulders.  
  
"A-Andrew?" Gary murmured softly, pushing himself into a sitting position. Dazed, confused, he looked around at the soft glowing mists that surrounded them. "Wh-where . . ."  
  
"This place exists only in your mind," the counselor told him with a smile. "Stand up."  
  
"B-But I can't . . ." he stammered.  
  
"Yes, Gary, you can," Andrew told him, holding out his hand. "Here, in this place, you can." He rose to his feet. "Just take my hand."  
  
Hesitantly, Gary reached up and clasped Andrew's hand, pulling himself to his feet with surprising ease. Puzzled, he looked around to get his bearings.  
  
"Why am I here?" he asked. "And what choice, exactly, did I make?"  
  
"You chose as you've always chosen," Andrew smiled. "To place the lives and safety of others above your own. It never ceases to amaze me, the dedication of the Guardians of your city."  
  
"Th-that's the second, no, third time I've been called that," Gary told him. "Just what does that mean? And how was I 'chosen' for this honor?"  
  
Andrew shook his gold-crowned head in amusement. "The Guardians are people like you, Gary, who care enough to put their lives on the line to help others," he chuckled. "Even among this elite group, you are unique. You see every life as sacred! You make no pretense of judgment, or condemnation. Even animals are worthy of your attention. You don't hesitate to become personally involved, no matter the cost to yourself. You face every obstacle head on, even when it scares you to death. You hesitate, sometimes, but you don't back down once you decide to act. You suffer ridicule, condemnation, and humiliation. Yet, even a 'crisis of faith,' and the prospect of your own death only made you falter. It didn't stop you from doing the right thing! You've even transcended time, Gary! None of the others have accomplished anything close to that!"  
  
"Whoopee," Gary grumbled. "I'm honored. Now tell me who you are, and what's your connection with the paper."  
  
"I'm an angel, Gary," was the astonishing reply. "I was sent by God to help you through a difficult time. And to prepare you for even more trying times to come. I, ahm, I'm also the Angel of Death," he added hurriedly.  
  
"C-come again? Angel of D-death?" Gary stuttered. "A-am I . . . ?"  
  
"No!" Andrew hastened to assure him. "It not your time . . . yet. Exactly when your time will come, I can't say. But your adventures are only beginning."  
  
"S-so the paper does come from . . .?" Gary aimed a shaky index finger skywards.  
  
"Not exactly," Andrew grinned. "And the cat isn't an angel. Guardian or otherwise."  
  
"Th-then . . . who . . . wh-where?" the young Guardian stammered, looking around nervously.  
  
"Not all of God's agent are of this world," the Angel of Death replied enigmatically. "Nor are they of 'celestial' origin. There are forces at work here that predate the birth of Jesus of Nazareth. That are older than mankind itself. These beings, like us, are trying to guide the faltering steps of an infant society on its way to greatness. And, like us, they have to work behind the scenes, through agents such as yourself. The tasks they give you are hard. Some of them seem impossible."  
  
"Seem?" Gary snorted. "I've been asked to be in two or three places at once! To-to affect things that are happening half the world away! To make choices based on-on how fast I can get to one place or another! To stop disasters w-without a clue as to how they started! To find that one event that can lead to total chaos!" Shaking, he paused to get himself under control. "I'm just one guy! All I can do is the best I can."  
  
Andrew stepped closer to the distraught man, laying a comforting hand on each shoulder. "Your best has been more than good enough, Gary," he replied in a compassionate tone. "You put your heart and soul into a task that too many run from. Others have found it beyond their grasp, so they delegate their responsibilities to others. That's not to say that these others are bad or uncaring. Just that they are unwilling to put as much of themselves into the task as you do."  
  
"H-how . . ." Unable to meet the compassion in those hazel eyes, Gary looked away. "Kn-knowing what I know, how can I do any less? How can I walk away? I've tried . . ."  
  
"And you've always come back," Andrew reminded him. "Your heart won't let you give up. It's just too great, too full of compassion! That's why you were chosen, Gary. That's why your soul has borne this burden through many lifetimes. Also, unlike many other 'old souls', you've worn the same face throughout the centuries. Only your name has changed. The essence of who you are has remained constant through every kind of hardship you can imagine."  
  
A black and white image of a young soldier seated in a military jeep flashed through Gary's mind. Startled, he shot Andrew a questioning look. "J-Jimmy?" he stammered softly. The angel gave him a sad smile and a nod.  
  
"Just one of many," he told the young Guardian.  
  
"Y-you're scaring me here," Gary stammered. "J-just how long have I been doing this?"  
  
"You really don't want to know," Andrew grinned. "On that, you'll just have to take my word."  
  
"Oh," Gary murmured in a small voice. "S-so, where do I go from here? I-I mean, wh-what happens next? Will I still . . . still be in that . . . that . . .?"  
  
"For a while," Andrew shrugged. "You still have some healing to endure. But your task here is complete. You helped Jean in a way that no one else could. Because you could speak to her from experience on all levels."  
  
"Is that what all this was about?" he asked, indicating his legs with an expressive gesture. "Was she . . . I mean, she said she wanted to . . ."  
  
"And she would have if you hadn't shown up when you did," was Andrew's solemn reply. "Also, if you hadn't set aside your own fear and weakness, she wouldn't have been encouraged to pull herself up onto that branch and meet you halfway. For some reason Ms. Phillips is very important to the future of this world, or she wouldn't have been singled out for special attention. If not her, then one of her children."  
  
"Or one of the lives they impact on," Gary nodded in understanding, if only a little. "Kinda like a . . . a domino effect. S-so now . . . what? I wake up? Or . . . not? And why did my accident have to happen when it did? Why did I have to go through all the . . . the stuff that I did?"  
  
Andrew gave vent to a martyred sigh. "First, you had to be strong enough, spiritually as well as mentally and physically, to face the ordeal of rescuing her from the cliff, and from herself," he told the young man. "The rest . . . There are also dark forces at work here, Gary. Forces that want to see you fail, who rejoice in every set back they can cause you. That's why you can't give up. You have to be strong to defeat them."  
  
"Do I . . . Do I get any help in this battle?" Gary asked nervously.  
  
The angel gave him a sad smile. "Help is only a prayer away. But for the most part, you're on your own. All the decisions are yours, and yours alone. We can offer only guidance, and a limited amount of assistance. This battle is for the soul and future of humanity, and a human soul must fight it. Are you strong enough, Gary?"  
  
The young Guardian sighed heavily as he met that earnest gaze. "Lord, I hope so."  
  
****************  
  
Almost two hours after leaving him lying on the cold, hard ground, alone, total darkness had fallen. By the time the rescue team reached the clearing, he had been unconscious for more than half that time. To Jean's eyes, Gary hadn't moved so much as an inch. The harsh lighting used by the paramedics made his pale features look almost bloodless. Sweat glistened on his forehead as he stirred feebly in response to physical stimulus. His breathing was still harsh and labored.  
  
Upon arriving, one of the paramedics spoke briefly into his radio, advising the physician at the base station, of the situation at the scene. He listened a moment, nodded, then quickly began filling a syringe with antivenin. At the same time his partner was tying a tourniquet around Gary's left arm, causing the veins to stand out. An IV was quickly established, then the first man inserted the needle into the tubing, injecting a tiny amount of the serum. Withdrawing the needle, he indicated that Gary be loaded onto a stretcher. "By the time we get to the chopper," he told Jean, "we'll know if he's allergic to the serum, or not."  
  
"If he is?" the teenager asked nervously. As the paramedic shrugged without meeting her anxious gaze, her heart sank. He couldn't die! Not like this!  
  
**************  
  
Gary was only dimly aware of the frantic activity going on around him. Too sick and exhausted to even open his eyes, he could barely manage a low moan of protest as something jabbed him in the arm. He tried to tell his tormentors to leave him alone as he was lifted and jostled onto some swaying surface, but all that came out was incoherent mutterings.   
  
An eternity later, the swaying stopped as he was loaded onto a stable surface. A moment later, something was once more tied around his right bicep, followed by another painful jab in the crook of his elbow. He tried to protest, but nothing would come out.  
  
Something had happened. Something he should remember, but it insisted on eluding him. Andrew. There was something about the counselor that was . . . special. What was it? What was it he needed to know?   
  
***************  
  
"Community General, this is Med-Evac 2 enroute with a 35 year old white male. Victim was bitten by a rattlesnake approximately two hours ago. IV was established with Ringer's Lactate, and antivenin was administered after test dose brought no reaction. Patient has shown no response to antivenin. Patient is also suffering from an open head injury in the occipital region. Respirations are rapid and shallow, skin is cool and clammy, pulse is 95 and thready, BP is 90 over 50." The paramedic listened to the voice at the other end for a moment. "Roger that Community General. Our ETA is ten minutes. Med-Evac 2 out."  
  
***************  
  
Jade was just giving the twins their bath when the phone rang. Handing a still dripping baby Gary to her cousin, Crystal, she snagged the receiver on the third ring.  
  
"Hello? Yes, this is . . . What? How . . . Oh, God! Where is he . . .? Yes! Yes, I'll contact him immediately. Thank you, Monica." Jade hit the disconnect button, then the speed dial for Chuck's cell-phone. She felt like she knew her husband pretty well. If something happened to Gary, his best friend, and he wasn't there for him, Chuck would never be able to forgive himself!  
  
****************  
  
Chuck glanced at his watch as he reached into his pocket for the vibrating cell-phone. It was after seven. It had to be Jade. No one else would need to interrupt him at this hour. Shooting his dining companion an apologetic glance, he flipped open the cover. "Hello . . ." He listened for a moment, his expression changing from apologetic to stricken. "Wh-where . . .? How soon . . .? I'll be there in fifteen. Thanks for calling me so quick, honey. N-no, I'm okay. Don't worry about me. No, I'll, um, I'll get a cab, or something. Oh, his folks! Call McGinty's. They're probably staying there. I'll call you as soon as I know anything, darlin'. Bye."  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hogan," he murmured as he signaled for the check. "Th-that was my wife. I have to get to Community General right away."  
  
"Is something wrong with one of your babies," the blonde actor asked in concern.  
  
"N-no," Chuck stammered. "It's my best friend. The guy I just took to that . . . that camp I told you about. He, ahm, he's been in an accident. L-look, I need to get a cab and get over there right now!"  
  
"No worries, mate," the big Aussie replied with a shake of his head. "I'll drop you off on my way home."  
  
"But you live in the other direction," Chuck reminded him.  
  
"So, I'll take the scenic route," he shrugged. "The important thing is for you to be there for your mate."  
  
********************  
  
By the time the 'copter landed on the helipad at Community General Hospital the injured man had still not responded to the antivenin. Gary was rushed to the ER, where the first person to see him was Dr. Jesse Travis. He quickly got over his surprise at seeing the man he had met over dinner just a few days before, in such obvious distress, in his treatment room. He quickly obtained as much history as the paramedics could give him. Apparently, too much time had passed between the attack and the administration of the first dose of serum. All they could do, now, was to make him as comfortable as possible and help him ride it out.  
  
***************  
  
Chuck rushed into the ER less than two steps behind another accident victim being wheeled in on a gurney. He quickly spotted Dr. Travis standing off to one side of the main corridor, consulting with a man in a blue lab coat. Rushing up to him, Chuck anxiously inquired about Gary. Jesse drew the distraught man aside to talk out of the mainstream of traffic.  
  
"He's stable for now," he told Chuck. "We took him to ICU less than five minutes ago."  
  
"How bad is it?" Chuck asked, pacing back and forth nervously. "Is it his heart? Did it stop again? Are we talkin' 'frequent dying miles' here? Or . . . or a c-coma? Give it to me straight, Doc. Is he gonna make it? Did I kill my best friend, sending him to that place? Tell me!"  
  
"Calm down, Chuck," Jesse urged the frantic man. "All I can say, right now, is that he is stable. We had some worries about his heart, at first, but he's regained a normal sinus rhythm on his own, without cardio-version."  
  
"You're talkin' Greek to me, Doc," Chuck told him. "Translate what you just said."  
  
"His heart has a good, steady rhythm," Jesse said with a smile. "We did not have to shock him. His CT scan showed no swelling or bleeding. There's no sign of fracture or concussion. We have an EEG hooked up which shows normal brain activity. He's probably wide awake, but he's unable to move a muscle. And he's on a respirator to help him breathe."  
  
Chuck paled at this last news. "He's totally paralyzed?" he gasped. "My God! Oh, my God! What've I done to him! It wasn't bad enough with just his legs! I had to go and get the rest of his body trashed, too!"  
  
"Will you quiet down!" Jesse hissed. "This is a hospital, for cryin' out loud! This is not necessarily a permanent condition. He could come out of it as early as tomorrow, or as late as, well . . ."  
  
"As late as never," Chuck finished for him, his narrow face twisted in anguish. "He could be like this for . . . for the rest of his life!"  
  
"Look," Jesse sighed, placing a hand of each of Chuck's shoulders. "If you can't project a more positive attitude, then I can't let you in to see him. The man needs hope, not a funeral dirge. Get yourself under control or keep your butt in the waiting room. What's it gonna be?"  
  
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Chuck nodded once without meeting Dr. Travis' eyes.  
  
"Good man. Now, let's get you up to ICU and find you a chair. I'll tell the nurses to let you stay for a while."  
  
****************  
  
Chuck paused at the door to Gary's cubicle. He could see his friend's motionless form through the glass partition and it tore at his heart. White bandages made a sharp contrast against his friend's dark hair. Gary was hooked up to monitors and machines, the purposes of which Chuck could only guess at. 'It's all my fault,' he told himself. 'I told him about that place. I sent him there! Oh, God! What have I done?'   
  
Remembering Jesse's admonishment about a positive attitude, Chuck squared his shoulders, wiped the tears from his eyes, and stepped into the tiny room. He eased into the chair the nurse had placed near the head of the bed, gingerly reaching out to take Gary's right hand in his.  
  
"I know you can hear me, Gar," he whispered. "You can probably feel me holding your hand. I just want you to know I'm here for you, kiddo. Any time you want to talk, just feel free. I-in the meantime, I'll, um, I'll just tell you what's going on. Okay? Here goes."  
  
Chuck's voice droned on as his friend listened in silence.  
  
*****************  
  
Hailey was the first of the group to burst through the ER doors, the others crowding less than a heartbeat behind her. It had taken them hours in the ancient van to cover the same distance that the 'copter had traversed in mere minutes. All during the long, bumpy drive, each of them had been murmuring anxious, heartfelt prayers that they would not arrive at the hospital only to hear tragic news. The reporter brought her chair to an abrupt halt in front of the admissions desk.  
  
"Gary Hobson!" she snapped. "Snakebite victim. Where is he?"  
  
The clerk shot the wheelchair-bound woman a tight-lipped frown, which softened as she took in the fearful looks on the six faces before her. "Are you his family?" she asked gently.   
  
"N-not exactly," Jean spoke up. "I'm the one he was hurt rescuing. Please, tell us where we can find him?"  
  
Something in the young girl's eyes moved the clerk to provide her with the information she requested. Or perhaps it was one of the oddly matched trio that had followed in on their own feet instead of wheelchairs. The clerk was never really sure, but she thought she had seen them glowing ever so softly.  
  
****************  
  
Jesse came out of ICU to find himself facing half-a-dozen anxious faces peering up at him from wheelchairs. It startled him for a moment until he recalled where his patient had been when the incident occurred.  
  
"You're from the camp," he said with a tired grin.  
  
"Yes," Hailey replied. "Gary Hobson. How is he?"  
  
Jesse tried to look reassuringly at the older woman, but it didn't appear that she was buying it. "His condition is critical," he sighed. "We've had to put him on a respirator because he's having a lot of difficulty breathing. So far he's not responded to the antivenin at all. That's all I can tell you, because, at this time, that's all we know."  
  
"Can we see him?" Bill asked. "Or, at least a couple of us?"  
  
"I'm sorry," Jesse told them with sincere regret. "The only exception to the 'family only' rule I can allow at this time is a close friend of his who's sitting with him right now. Space is very limited in these rooms, and I'm afraid your chairs just won't let you get close enough to do any of you, or him, any good. If you'll give your names to the nurse, we can find you if there's any change." He started to push past them, only to have the older of the two men grab his sleeve.  
  
"What are his chances?" Doug asked with a grim expression.  
  
"If it were anyone else," Dr. Travis replied truthfully, "I'd say 'pretty slim.' Look, I'm gonna be brutal here, and tell you things I didn't tell his friend. This snake injected him with an incredibly strong toxin, and it hit 'im like a freight train. Even if he survives, he could be completely paralyzed. Or, at the very least, suffer permanent brain damage of some sort. But his friend, Mr. Fishman, tells me he's made quite a habit of beating the odds lately. Something about 'frequent dying miles,' I think." He tried to rub the weariness from his face before continuing. "Anyway, all we can do now is pump him full of antibiotics and pain meds, and see if he can pull out of this on his own."  
  
"If anyone can," Michelle insisted, "it'll be Gary. He has to."  
  
***************  
  
Chuck sat clutching his friend's limp hand between both of his as he watched the steady rise and fall of Gary's chest. He was wishing the movement was under Gary's own power, not accompanied by the incessant click-whir of the respirator. Was this what it had been like for the others? Back when his friend had taken that first dreadful plunge down those wretched stairs? Had Gary's mom and dad sat by his side for hours, praying to see some sign of life, as he was praying now?  
  
"C'mon, Gar," he murmured softly. "I know you can hear me. I know it! Please wake up. Please tell me I didn't send my best friend off to die! I thought they could help you! I did! You'd been having such a rough time of it before. I just thought they could help you build up your confidence. Even before . . . this . . . you've doubted yourself. Doubted that you could handle wh-what you had to do. You are the most capable man I have ever met, Gary Hobson. I just thought . . . a little boost to the ol' morale was in order," he continued in a tight voice, a tear escaping from the corner of his eye. "I didn't know I was sending you to . . . Don't die on me, Gar! Please!"  
  
Sobbing quietly, Chuck pressed his forehead against Gary's flaccid hand and prayed harder than he had ever prayed for anything in his life. So wrapped up was he in his grief, he failed to notice the single tear rolling down from the corner of Gary's eye.  
  
*****************  
  
Gary could hear everything. He knew the doctors and nurses weren't holding out much hope for him. Knew that, at best, he might get by with only 'minimal' brain damage. 'How much is 'minimal'?' he wondered. Would his memories be intact? Would his mental processes be impaired? What could he expect? His head hurt, but nowhere near as bad as when he had been mugged, so he probably didn't have a concussion. Right?  
  
He knew that his parents had been called, and that his mother was even now booking the earliest flight she could get. He also knew that his best and oldest friend was blaming himself for his current state.  
  
'It's not your fault, Chuck,' he tried to say. 'It was just another stupid accident. Please don't punish yourself like this!' But no words came out. Gary concentrated on just opening one eye, so that he could at least see his friend, and let him see he was going to be alright. Not even a twitch of an eyelash. 'Please, God!' he begged. 'Help me! Let me wake up from this nightmare! I . . . I can't help anyone like this! Either let me move or let me die! Please!'  
  
******************  
  
The group from the camp sat around the ICU waiting area, every eye jerking towards the door at any and all movement. Finally, in frustration, Hailey tossed down the magazine she had been pretending to read.  
  
"Why won't someone just tell us something," she moaned. "Anything!"  
  
"They may not have anything to say," Eleanor sighed. "Except to tell us there's been no change."  
  
"God! Why did I have to be so stupid and insensitive!" the older woman snapped bitterly. "I knew how upset just the idea of his story going to print made him! I knew! So why did I have to plant that stupid recorder!" Earlier, upon returning to the dining room at the camp, she had immediately confessed to everyone what had happened. She had been so distraught over what she thought Gary might do, what she may have driven him to do, that she had not thought to pull the counselors aside. "He has to be alright," she pleaded, tears welling up in her hazel eyes. "He has to."  
  
"He will be," Doug assured her. "I mean, look at what he's been through already. The boy's just too ornery to kick off over a little snakebite. Right?" He looked around at the others, his eyes expressing the worry that his words denied. "Right?"  
  
A crushing silence was his only answer.  
  
***************  
  
"He will be alright, won't he, Andrew?" Monica asked of her fellow 'counselor'. "Surely God does not intend that he suffer any further hardship."  
  
"Gary is going to live," the blonde angel sighed. "Beyond that . . ." He shrugged and shook his head sadly. "This may be another test which he has to endure. It's possibly a test of his determination and will to survive. The path chosen for Gary is a long, arduous one, full of an endless variety of pitfalls. Pride being the least of them."  
  
"Well, that's good," Tess snorted. "With what he's been through, I'm surprised the boy has any pride left."  
  
***************  
  
Gary was getting worried about Chuck. His friend had not made a sound in quite a while. It was hard to judge time in the limbo state he found himself in, but he knew that prolonged silence was not in character for his ebullient friend. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he concentrated all of his strength on trying to move his right hand, the one Chuck was clutching like a lifeline. 'Just one finger, God,' he pleaded. 'Just one finger to let him know I can hear him! Please!'  
  
*****************  
  
Chuck looked up as the beeping from the monitor over Gary's bed started picking up speed. Was that good? Did that mean his best pal might be waking up soon? "C'mon, Gar," he murmured softly. "You can do it, pal." The rhythm of the monitor picked up its pace a little. "Atta boy, Gar," Chuck whispered. "Keep at it. You can do this, Gary. Just keep trying. C'mon!"  
  
Gradually, the beeping slowed down to its former pattern once more. Disappointment washed over Chuck's tired, drawn features as he sat back, giving Gary's hand a gentle pat. "That's okay, pal," he sighed. "You'll get it next time. Just keep trying, Gary. It's all you can do. Just keep trying."  
  
***************  
  
"How is he doing?" Dr. Sloan asked his young colleague the next morning.  
  
"If you're talking about Gary Hobson," Jesse sighed wearily, "he's holding his own. Vital signs were a little closer to normal when I checked in on him an hour ago. But he still hasn't regained consciousness. His heart rate keeps going up and down. It's kinda like he's trying to wake up, but just doesn't have the strength, yet. I'm getting really worried about total paralysis. That's all he needs. Man, seeing him come in like that, with everything that he's already been through, it kinda freaked me out for a second. I mean, how much bad luck can one person go through and stay sane?"  
  
"I think Gary is pushing the limits on that issue," Mark Sloan sighed. "I just got a call from a young woman I used to know. Dr. Janet Fraiser. Excellent young resident when I knew her several years ago. She claims to know Gary, and of his situation."  
  
"That's fine," Jesse murmured, "but what's that . . .?"  
  
"She'll be here in a couple of hours to consult with us on some tests she ran on him just before he came to Los Angeles," Mark told him. "So go catch some shut-eye while you can. I'll let ICU know to page me if there's any change in his condition. Is his friend still here?"  
  
"Um, yeah," Jesse mumbled. "He's in the waiting room. I promised we'd let him know if anything changes."  
  
"Good," Mark nodded, rising to his feet once more. "I'll go talk to him while you get some rest."  
  
"Don't know how much rest I'll get," Jesse sighed as he pushed himself to his feet. "Every time I close my eyes, I keep seeing Hobson lying on that gurney, looking like he's about to take his last breath. There's just something about this guy, Mark. Something . . . special. But I can't quite put my finger on what it is. I mean, look at his track record just since he hit the Coast. He saves you and Steve from a poisonous snake, then he gets bitten while saving this girl he barely knows from falling off a cliff! From what his friends say, he's having major guilt trips because he couldn't save the guy who was trying to kill him! What kind of man is he?"  
  
Mark Sloan paused at the door to look back at his young friend. "Well, he seems to be a very caring young man," he observed. "To paraphrase Hitchcock, I'd have to say he's 'The Man Who Cares Too Much.' Now, off you go. I'll call you when Dr. Fraiser gets here. I really think you two need to put your heads together on this case. Who knows? We might see a miracle."  
  
"I hope so," Jesse murmured as he headed for the lounge. "I think he's earned a couple."  
  
*****************  
  
  
  
Dr. Sloan found Chuck Fishman pacing nervously in the crowded waiting room. The young producer looked as if he had not slept all night, which he probably hadn't. He had obviously not shaved, and his thin brown hair was badly disheveled. At every sound, Chuck's head whipped around to face the door, so he spotted the kindly physician the moment he arrived.   
  
"How is he?" he asked anxiously. "Is there any change? He's dead, isn't he! My, God! It's finally happened! His heart stopped and you couldn't get him back this time! I-I gotta go . . . go see 'im!" he cried, trying to push his way past Mark, tears welling in his eyes.  
  
"Whoa!" Dr. Sloan ordered, grabbing Fishman by the shoulders and holding him back. "First of all, I just looked in on your friend and he's still hanging in there. His heartbeat is a little bit stronger, and he's trying to fight the respirator, which is good. We've eased back the pressure a bit to see if we can start weaning him off of it. We'll be keeping him in ICU until that's done, then he'll be moved to a private room." He bent slightly to look the smaller man in the eyes. "He's trying to fight his way back to us, Chuck. And we'll do everything in our power to see that he makes it."  
  
Chuck looked up into the doctor's concerned gaze, clear blue eyes asking silently if he was going to be 'okay.' Relief washed over him in a flood as he sank into one of the waiting room chairs. Gary was okay. His best friend in the whole world was definitely going to live. Today, anyway. He had never mentioned it to anyone, not Gary or Marissa, not even to his wife, but one of the reason's he had left Chicago was fear. Fear that he would be the one called to identify whatever remained of his friend after a rescue gone disastrously bad. Every time he saw Gary, Chuck was reminded of just how dangerous his buddy's life had become. Even now, confined to that damned chair, he was almost constantly at risk.  
  
"Can I see him?" Chuck asked shakily. "Th-they chased me out last night. M-made me leave him there . . . all alone."  
  
"I'll tell the nurses to let you stay for a couple of hours." Dr. Sloan promised. "Any word on his mother?"  
  
"Um, yeah," the younger man answered distractedly. "Jade's on her way to pick her up at the airport. He's really gonna be okay?"  
  
Before Mark could reply, he felt a tug on the back of his lab coat. He looked down to see a pretty auburn haired girl in her teens, sitting in a wheelchair.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, "But I couldn't help overhearing. You're talking about Gary Hobson, the man who was flown in last night? The snake bite? We . . . we're from the same camp. Is there any chance we could see him? Just to let him know we're here for him? Please?"  
  
Dr. Sloan sadly shook his head. "Not while he's in the Unit," he told her. "There's just not enough room. But we'll try to keep you posted on his condition, Miss . . ."  
  
"Phillips," the girl replied with a trembling smile. "Jean Phillips. I'm . . . I'm the one he pulled up the cliff face after . . . after he was . . . bitten. H-he didn't even know he'd been . . . I mean, how could he? B-But he hates heights, and-and his head was . . . H-he must've hit . . ." Over come with guilt and grief, the young redhead leaned forward, burying her face in her hands as she let her tears flow.  
  
An older woman with short blonde hair propelled her chair up next to the sobbing girl, pulling her into a gentle embrace. "It's not your fault," she said. "If anyone's to blame, it's me. I was the one who drove him into riding off like he did, not you." She looked up at the two men. "Hailey Tisdale, reporter for INN."  
  
"Well, that explains a lot," Chuck mumbled. "Gar hates publicity."  
  
"I realize that," Hailey sighed. "Now. I just had no idea how much, or why, until we bullied him into talking about the nightmares he'd been having."  
  
"And about what happened last Halloween," a teenaged boy, also confined to a wheelchair, spoke up. "Are you Chuck?" he asked.  
  
"Wha . . . um, yeah," Chuck nodded. "He talked about me?"  
  
"Said you were his best friend," the boy replied. "How is he? We've been here all night, but no one's told us anything."  
  
Dr. Sloan quickly told the anxious group everything he had told Chuck. Then he promised to see that they were given an update as soon as anything happened. As he led Chuck back to ICU, he shook his head sadly.   
  
"Gary has so many friends," he sighed, "and such rotten luck."  
  
"You don't know the half of it," Chuck mumbled. "Gar's the kinda guy who'll go out and work like a dog to make a fortune, just to give it to someone that he thinks needs it more than he does. Then he'll go out and do it all over again. Money and fame don't mean a thing to him. He's just a really nice guy!"  
  
******************  
  
To Chuck's eyes, Gary looked pretty much as he had left him. The machine beside his bed still made that steady, hypnotic click-whirr. The monitor over his head beeped out a reassuring rhythm. Gary still lay flat on his back, eyes closed, unmoving except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Chuck pulled that same chair he had occupied before up close to the bed and sat down. Gently, he lifted his friend's right hand and began to slowly massage it.  
  
"Your mom'll be here soon," he murmured. "Jade's picking her up now. I'll . . . I'll stay 'til she gets here. We won't let 'em drive us out again, pal. You won't ever be alone while you're in this place, I promise you! Just . . . just don't give up, Gar. Please don't give up. The world needs guys like you. We need guys like you . . . to keep us on the straight and narrow. To show us the kind of person we should all try to be. I need you, Gary, to keep me on the right track. Don't abandon me now."  
  
He looked up as the beeping from the monitor picked up speed. Watched as the numbers rose higher, leveled out for a moment, then began to slow down once more. Startled, he looked down at the hand he held. Was it his imagination, or had he felt a slight trembling in the fingers of that hand?   
  
"C'mon, Gar," he whispered encouragingly. "You can do this! I know you can do this! One more time, please! Just to let me know you can hear me!"  
  
Again, the beeping grew more rapid, as the fingers on Gary's right hand trembled every so slightly. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, indicating to Chuck that his friend was putting forth tremendous effort to make just that tiny amount of motion. As the beeping slowed once more, Chuck took a washcloth and wiped the moisture from Gary's brow.  
  
"That was great, pal," he murmured. "You keep trying. We'll have you out of this bed in no time. You hear me? You and me, Gar. We're a team. We'll always be the ones to beat."  
  
****************  
  
'He knows!' Gary exulted. 'He knows I can hear him! Thank you, God! Thank you!' In the silence of his heart, Gary wept for joy over that tiny victory. He would not give up, now. He couldn't. Not when his friend needed him so much. And Mom would be there, soon. Good. She could always drag the best out of him. Even when he felt he had no more to give, Mom could always help him find just a little bit more. With her, Chuck, and God on his side, he couldn't lose.  
  
****************  
  
"Jesse Travis, let me introduce Dr. Janet Fraiser," Mark Sloan said with a sly grin. The two young doctors were able to look each other in the eye, both being just barely over five feet in height. They appeared to be pretty close age wise, as well. When he had first met Janet, she had been in the midst of a very messy divorce. Jesse, also, had been shortchanged in the romance department.  
  
"Nice to meet you, Janet," Jesse replied, giving the uniformed doctor a tired smile. "Mark tells me you may be onto something that can help my patient."  
  
"I hope so," Dr. Fraiser smiled in return. "From what I understand, his condition is pretty serious. The treatment I'd like to try has been run through some pretty sophisticated computer simulations, but no human, or even animal, trials."  
  
"So, this is an experiment from the get go," Jesse murmured. "With Gary as the guinea pig?"  
  
"Not entirely," the young Air Force major responded. "I've based it on some tests I did on Gary at our facility a little over a week ago, plus some research I've been a party to over the last several years. I have access to some really 'out of this world' equipment. Is there someplace we can talk privately? Most of what I have to say is . . . not for public distribution."  
  
"Sure," Mark smiled. "We can use my office." He paused as he noticed Jade Fishman hurrying in on the heels of a petite blonde woman. The blonde headed for the admissions desk like a guided missile. "Excuse me a moment. Oh, um, Jesse. Why don't you show Janet to my office? I'll be there in just a few minutes."  
  
Jesse followed his friend's gaze, understanding instantly. "Sure, Mark," he nodded, taking Dr. Fraiser by the elbow. "Right this way, Major."  
  
"You can call me Janet," the pretty redhead smiled as she was led away.  
  
Dr. Sloan quickly crossed the ER lobby as the blonde asked the whereabouts of her son.  
  
"Jade," he called softly. "This way."   
  
Startled, the younger woman snapped her head around. She relaxed a bit when she caught sight of the doctor. Tugging on the smaller woman's sleeve, she whispered something, then led her across the nearly empty room.  
  
"Dr. Sloan," Jade sighed with relief. "This is Lois Hobson, Gary's mother. Is Chuck still with him?"  
  
"He was when I looked in a little while ago," he said, taking Lois by the hand. "It's good to meet you, Mrs. Hobson. I just wish it was under better circumstances."  
  
"You can call me Lois," she replied, giving his hand a quick, firm shake. "Tell me, Dr. Sloan, what are his chances? And how soon can I see him?"  
  
Dr. Sloan led the two women into the ER doctor's lounge and sat them down. "To answer your second question, I'll take you to see him as soon as we've had a chance to talk," he told them. "As to his chances . . . Right now, he's almost totally paralyzed. His heart and brain, so far as we can tell, are functioning normally. His lungs are very weak and we've had to put him on a respirator. But we think he's aware of everything that's happening around him, and that he's fighting as hard as he can to get back to us. Chuck said that he felt his fingers move when I last checked in. Also, his heart rate and blood pressure will show a brief, sudden rise occasionally. Usually in response to something that's been said or done to him. There's also EEG evidence of increased brain activity on those occasions."  
  
Lois sat back in the chair, her eyes brimming with tears of relief. "He's going to live," she sighed. "Thank God." She looked up, meeting Dr. Sloan's concerned gaze. "Gary's a fighter, Dr. Sloan. He'll deny it, of course. He'll say he's just 'an average guy.' But once he gets started on something, he won't quit until it's finished. That includes moving and, eventually, walking. Now, please, take me to see my son."  
  
**************** 


	5. Renewal Of Faith

Her first glimpse of Gary almost broke Lois Hobson's heart. He lay there, unmoving. The head of his bed was raised slightly, a tube leading from a machine with what looked like an accordion in a jar leading to his mouth. Another smaller tube led from a bag of fluid hooked up to a pump and into his left arm. A strip of bandage cut a white swath through his sable hair. His right hand was firmly clasped in both of Chuck's, who sat with his head bowed. The little man was murmuring soft words of encouragement to his friend as he gently massaged the flaccid fingers between his own thumbs and forefingers.   
  
"You have to keep trying, Gar," he was saying in a strained, weary voice. "I know you're tired, and I've been riding you since I got here, but you gotta keep trying. You almost had it last time. C'mon, pal. Just one more time and I'll let you rest. Please, Gar. Just . . ."  
  
All the monitors reacted at once. As Lois watched, the squiggly lines on the one-labeled EEG became sharper and steeper. The peaked traces of the heart monitor crowded closer together as the beep-beep-beep picked up its pace. This lasted for several seconds as those precious fingers quivered, twitched, and finally curled just the tiniest bit before relaxing back into immobility once more. Lois put a trembling hand to her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks at the proof of her son's struggle to return. Silently, she stepped the rest of the way into the tiny cubicle, laying a hand on Chuck's shoulder.  
  
Chuck looked up at her, moisture glistening in his eyes as he gave her a triumphant grin. "Lois! You're here! Did you see that? Did you see? He moved!" he exulted. "J-just a little, but he really moved!"  
  
"Yes, Chuck," she whispered in a strained voice. "Yes. I saw. He can hear us? He's not . . . not in a coma?" Her knees buckled and she collapsed into Chuck's arms, her breath catching in her throat as she fought not to break down entirely. "I-I'm okay," she said with a little hiccup. "It's just . . . he l-looks . . . he's so . . . still!" Instinctively, she reached down to smooth the hair sticking out from under the bandage. Her fingertips felt the sweat on his brow, and the coolness of his skin. "You did good, sweetie," she sniffled. "I want you to rest a few minutes, then we'll try again. Momma's here now. Momma's here!" With a sob, she gently put her arms around her son, brushing his cheek softly with her lips. "We'll get through this, baby. I promise you. W-we'll get you back on your f-feet in no time."  
  
"You tell him, Mrs. H," Chuck whispered. "You tell him."  
  
****************  
  
"Micro-cellular synaptic inhibitors. Neural transmitters," Jesse murmured. "Electro-nucleic stimulation? Sounds like something out of Star Trek! Are you sure this is safe?"  
  
"I've run it through thousands of simulations," Dr. Fraiser replied. "While a number of the components of this compound can be considered toxic, combined in this fashion, they form a powerful neural stimulant that can break through the barrier that I found." She opened a large envelope, pulling out an equally large piece of celluloid. "This is an enhanced MRI of   
spine." She withdrew another sheet of film. "And this is a micro-cellular scan of the same area. Now, the MRI shows that the damage to his spine is healed. But the other reveals this substance, here, which is blocking the neural pathways. It's thin. The thickness of a single molecule. That's why it never showed up on any of the other tests."  
  
"These are incredible!" Jesse murmured, gazing intently at the second sheet of images. "What kind of scanner gets this kind of detail?"  
  
"That's classified," was Janet's quick reply. "The point is the compound I want to try on Gary is designed exclusively for him. I doubt that it would work on anyone else; because his case is like no other I've ever seen. Add in the complications brought on by the snakebite, and the failure of the antivenin, his chances are not improving!"  
  
Jesse looked at the images, running the options rapidly through his mind. "He's not my patient anymore," he murmured. "He's Mark's. These are really . . .Um, the person we should be talking to about this is his mother. I think that's the woman that came in with Jade, Mrs. Fishman, just a little while ago."  
  
"Then let's go talk to her," Janet insisted. "Gary's already been in that chair for over seven months. And he could be in that bed even longer if we don't do something soon."  
  
******************  
  
'God, Mom,' Gary tried to say. 'It's so good to hear your voice! Yes! Yes, I can hear you! I love you, Mom. I know I don't say that often enough, but I do. Don't cry! Please don't! I'll keep trying, I promise! Just, please don't cry! See? Watch this, Mom! Look! Did you see? Please tell me you saw it move! You did? Thank God, thank God! Again? Sure! Anything, Momma. Just . . . don't cry anymore! Who's . . . Dr. Fraiser? What's that? Yes! Tell her yes! I'll try anything! Just get me out of here, Mom! Please!'  
  
******************  
  
"I . . . I don't know," Lois stammered. "It sounds . . . risky. What if it doesn't work? Or worse! What if it . . . kills . . . I can't . . ."  
  
"Ask Gary," Chuck told her. "It's his life. Let him decide." He turned to his motionless friend. "Gar, I know you can hear everything the docs just told us. Do you want to try this? If you do, try to move your hand. If you don't . . ."   
  
Chuck was interrupted by the respirator alarm and the rapid beeping of the heart monitor as Gary threw everything he had into moving the fingers of his right hand. Sweat beaded his brow, and a low, breathy moan pushed its way out past the tube in his throat as he strove to answer.  
  
"Y-yes," Lois stammered tearfully. "H-he says . . . yes, he wants to take . . . to take the chance." She wiped the moisture from her cheeks as she turned to face the major. "So, when do we do this?"  
  
"Right now," Dr. Fraiser told her. She set her black bag on the bed and snapped it open. She then withdrew a syringe and a vial of a dark amber liquid. As she filled the syringe, she turned to the other two doctors. "You might want to strap him down," she said. "This is going to hurt."  
  
"Hurt!" Lois exclaimed fearfully. "You never said anything about causing him any pain! I can't let you . . ."  
  
The alarms sounded again as Gary tried to speak. Frantic, Lois looked from the monitors to her son, then to the needle in Dr. Fraiser's hands. With a grim expression, she took the chair that Chuck had occupied most of the night, clutching Gary's hand. "You won't need any straps," she said. "Let's get this over with."  
  
With an equally somber nod, the Major swabbed the IV port and jabbed the needle in. She clamped off the tubing above the port, then slowly pushed the plunger in until the syringe was empty.   
  
At first nothing happened. Seconds ticked by as every eye in the room flickered from Gary to the monitor above his head and back to the still figure on the bed. Suddenly, the hand Lois was clutching closed around hers in a painful grip! Gary's eyes shot open and his back arched until only his head and heels remained in contact with the mattress! The tube fell from his mouth as his jaws clenched so tightly that he bit right through it! Jesse, Mark, and Chuck each jumped in and grabbed a limb, thinking to prevent him from thrashing about.   
  
There was no thrashing. Gary held that awkward, painful position for several seconds. The only sounds in the room were the incessant alarm from the heart monitor as his heart rate skyrocketed, and the rasp of his harsh breathing around what remained of the tube in his throat. Sweat popped out from every pore in his body, every tendon and vein stood out like lines on a relief map! Finally, he let out a low, whimpering groan and collapsed back on the bed, eyes closed once more and his panting breath whistling in and out through the tube that was now more hindrance than help. Gradually, all the alarms stopped as Gary's heart rate and breathing eased to a less frantic rhythm. His eyelids fluttered a moment, then closed as a long sigh whispered out around the severed tube.  
  
Removing her hand from her son's limp grip, Lois flexed her fingers with a painful grimace. She then used that same hand to brush the hair from her only child's pale, sweat-dampened forehead. He was truly unconscious this time. She watched wordlessly as Dr. Sloan took a pair of hemostats, turned Gary's head up, and pried open his mouth to remove what was left of the ventilation tube. Gary's breathing sounded a lot better after that.  
  
"We'll get him moved to a private room right away," Dr. Sloan told her.  
  
"Thank you," Lois sighed. "H-how long before he . . . he wakes up?"  
  
"I don't know," Dr. Fraiser replied honestly. "This took a lot out of him at a time when he really didn't have a lot to give. Keep talking to him. He's going to be disoriented when he does wake up, and hearing familiar voices can only help."  
  
Chuck shot his wife a meaningful gaze before turning to the doctor. "Don't worry, he's not gonna be alone for one minute," he assured her. "Not one."  
  
**************  
  
He was so tired. Standing at the foot of the precipice, with no place to go but up, Gary wondered where he was going to find the strength to make that climb. Wondered if he had what it took to reach that faint glow which called to him from the lip of the escarpment. They had never gotten around to his rock climbing lessons, but Andrew had told him over and over again how it was done. Tentatively, he reached up with his right hand for the nearest handhold, then wedged his left foot into a tiny niche about knee height and pushed up. In this fashion, the young Guardian began inching his way upwards, out of the darkness.   
  
It wasn't easy. His flagging strength threatened to desert him with each effort. The rock face under a hand or a foot would crumble, causing him to slip several feet before his frantically scrabbling fingers could find purchase again. Cautiously, he looked down, squeezing his eyes shut as vertigo threatened to overwhelm him. Grimly, he stiffened his resolve and, keeping his eyes fixed on his goal, reached for the next finger hold.  
  
The tiny, dim speck of light beckoned him like a siren's call, pulling him upwards. Inch by painful inch, he drew closer to that unchanging beacon of hope. It neither grew, nor brightened, but simply hung there, drawing him upwards.   
  
'Please, God,' he prayed. 'I'm trying my best. Please help me. I can't do this alone. Please. Please, just a little more strength. Just a little more.'  
  
Then he heard the voices. They were just whispers at first. Teasing, enticing, cajoling whispers flitting in and out like leaves on the wind. As he struggled to climb higher, they grew stronger, more insistent, urging him to greater efforts.  
  
'C'mon!' they murmured softly. 'You can do this. We're right here, Gary. Just keep trying.'  
  
'We know you can hear us, sweetie,' a softer voice urged. 'You have to keep trying. Don't give up! Please! Don't give up!'  
  
He was close now! So close! He could see the sharp outline of the edge of the cliff. It was almost in his reach! Frantically he looked around for a crack, a crevice, any kind of finger hold! Even one big enough to wedge a fingernail in! Anything! But the rock face was as smooth as glass. He had gone as far as he could alone.  
  
'Help me!' he pleaded. 'Please! God, please! Help me!'  
  
From the center of the circle of light, a slender hand reached down. Desperately, like a drowning man clutching at his last chance for salvation, Gary grabbed onto that hand.  
  
*****************  
  
Lois sat forward as she felt Gary grip her hand. She held her breath as his eyelids fluttered, then opened in a puzzled, troubled gaze. She watched as he looked around at the roomful of hopeful, expectant faces. Finally, as his eyes locked with hers, she let her breath out in a relieved sigh.  
  
"M-m-mom?" he murmured.   
  
"Yes, sweetie," she replied, biting her lip to keep from laughing out loud with joy. He knew her! He was going to be okay! "How do you feel?"  
  
"T-t-tired," was his labored response. "H-hard . . . t-t-to . . . t-talk."  
  
"Then don't try, hon," Lois told her son. "Not yet, anyway. Save your strength." She looked around at the others, unable to stop the tears as they trickled down her cheeks. "You have a lot of visitors," she told him. "Everyone from the camp is here. So are Chuck and Jade. And there's a Dr. Fraiser around here somewhere who wants to see if her little concoction worked on you."  
  
"F-F-Frai-ser? Wh-what's . . . sh-sh-she . . .?" He closed his eyes briefly as he tried to swallow down whatever was causing his mouth to stumble like that. "Wh-why c-can't I t-t-talk . . .st-straight?"  
  
Lois tried to hide her concern as she watched him struggle to speak. 'Oh God, please!' she thought in despair. 'Hasn't he been through enough?' "It's okay, Gary," she crooned in a soothing tone. "You're just tired, as you said. It'll get easier as you get your strength back. Why don't you let the rest of us talk for a while?" She shot an anxious glance over at Chuck and Jade. 'Help me!'  
  
The couple quickly stepped forward, wiping suspiciously at their own faces. Even the worldly, cynical ex-thief was having a hard time hiding an almost overwhelming sense of relief. How did this goody-two-shoes manage to get under her skin so deep?  
  
"Hey, boy scout," she murmured softly. "About time you woke up. We've had a hard time keeping these nurses in line. They're drawing lots to see who gives you your next sponge bath." She was rewarded by a slow flush reddening Gary's otherwise pallid features. "Don't worry," she added with a throaty chuckle. "Chuck and Dr. Sloan kept them honest."  
  
Gary quickly averted his eyes as his flush deepened. That did not help!  
  
"Don't let her kid you, Gar," Chuck spoke up quickly. A little too quickly, as his own face took on a crimson shade. "They couldn't chase your mom out with a stick. She hasn't left your side since she got here. A-and you've got all th-these other people waiting to say 'Hello' s-so, um, w-we'll be right outside. C'mon, Jade!" he hissed. Chuck took his wife firmly by the elbow and led her outside. She smiled and tossed Gary a little wave as she calmly let herself be taken out to face her husband's ire.  
  
Jean was the first to push herself forward. She took Gary's left hand in both of hers as she favored him with a tearful smile. "We thought you were going to sleep forever," she sniffled. "Did I ever thank you for saving my life?"  
  
"I-I th-think s-s-so," Gary murmured, a puzzled look in his muddy green eyes. "H-hard t-to re-re-m-mem-ber."  
  
"Dr. Sloan and Dr. Fraiser both said that was to be expected," Lois spoke up as she caught the teenager's concerned look. "You've been through a terrible ordeal, sweetie," she reminded him. "It's going to take some time for things to settle back to normal."  
  
"D-d-d-de-fine . . . n-nor-mal," Gary responded with a forced smile. He turned his head back to face the girl on his left. "Y-you g-g-. . . g-get th-things s-s-settled w-w-with . . . D-Dar-ren?" he asked.  
  
"You bet I did," she grinned. "I told him off, then I called and told his fiancée how he'd been talking about her. I think it's safe to say the wedding is off." She frowned slightly as she studied Gary's worn features. "I'm going now. There wasn't enough room for all of us to squeeze in here at once, so we're having to take turns. They let me go first so I could thank you for saving me from myself. You're the best, Gary." Jean leaned in to kiss his pale cheek, just as she had that day on the bluff. She then backed her chair around so that she could leave and make room for the next visitor.  
  
One by one, the others came in to say 'Hello' and offer their hopes for his full recovery. Bill was next to last, gently teasing Gary about getting out of that rock climbing trip 'the hard way.' Gary just smiled and shook his head. It was so difficult to speak, it would take him forever to tell of his latest dream.  
  
Last was Hailey Tisdale. The reporter eased her chair into the room hesitantly, unsure of her welcome.  
  
"Hi, Gary," she murmured. "I, um, I owe you a huge apology. Not to mention an explanation." She took a tiny handheld recorder from her shirt pocket. The same one she had planted in his room. "I haven't played it yet," she told him, unable to meet his puzzled gaze. "I'm not going to. I never should've put it there in the first place. After that . . . that session, I realized how truly important it was for you to . . . to be able to choose when, or if, your story was made public. That so many choices had been snatched away from you by an uncaring fate, or an unfeeling media. I was going to destroy the tape without ever listening to it. Now . . . now, I think I should leave that to you. You can listen to it, if you like, to be sure it's the real thing. Or you can just take it out and burn it, or whatever, if you still trust me enough to take my word for it."  
  
She placed the tiny device into Gary's hand. Wordlessly, he fumbled at it, trying to flip it open and remove the tape. His trembling hands refused to co-operate, however, so he looked to his mother for help. She reached over, taking the recorder from his shaky grasp and quickly removed the tape.   
  
"Th-think D-doc-tor S-s-Sloan c-could . . . t-t-toss th-that on th-the . . . gr-ill?" he asked.  
  
"Oh, I'm sure we can think of something," Lois smiled. She turned an icy glare on the penitent reporter. "You said something about an apology?"  
  
"Yes!" Hailey tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. "I'm so s-. . ."  
  
"D-don't s-say y-you're s-s-s-sorry," Gary stammered forcefully. "J-just d-. . . d-don't d-do . . . a-an-y . . ." Helplessly, he looked over at his mom.  
  
"I think he's trying to say, 'Don't ever do anything like this again.' Right, sweetie?"  
  
Gary nodded his head, his meager strength spent. He gave Hailey's hand a gentle squeeze, all he could manage by way of forgiveness, but it was enough. She gave him a grateful smile in return as his eyes drifted shut. A moment later, she knew he was asleep by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. The reporter turned to meet Lois's steely gaze with one of concern.  
  
"Why is he have so much trouble talking?" she asked. "Is he . . . is he going to be alright?"  
  
"I honestly don't know," Lois murmured as she pulled the blanket up to Gary's chin. "They . . . they mentioned . . . the possibility of . . . of brain damage. But his mind seems as sharp as ever. It'll . . . it'll just take time, and patience. We have plenty of both. Now."  
  
"This is all my fault," the reporter whispered brokenly. "If I hadn't . . ."  
  
"Then something else would've driven him to be at that place, at that time," Lois sighed. "He was needed there, Hailey. And nothing can stop him from being where he's really needed. No matter what the cost."  
  
******************  
  
Lois was half asleep the next time Gary opened his eyes. She roused out of a light doze to find him watching her through heavy-lidded eyes.   
  
"Hi, sweetie," she smiled. "Feeling better?"   
  
His only response was a slow nod. Wordlessly, he let his eyes wander around the otherwise empty room. His brow scrunched into a puzzled frown, as if to ask where everyone had gone.  
  
"You just missed Chuck," she told him. "He had to take Jade home to look after the babies. And your friends from the camp left not long after you fell asleep." She reached out to press the 'call' button on his bedside controls, telling the nurse who answered that Gary was awake. "Dr. Sloan wanted to know the minute you woke up," Lois told her son. "Feel like trying to talk some more?"  
  
"Sh-sure," Gary stammered. "Wh-wh-what sh-sh . . ." He paused to lick dry lips before trying again. "Wh-what sh-should we t-talk ab-bout?"  
  
"Did you enjoy your stay at that camp?"  
  
Gary shot her a sour look. Before he could work his mouth around a suitable reply, the door swung open to admit Dr. Sloan, with Janet Fraiser hot on his heels.  
  
"Well, hello!" The silver-haired physician greeted him with a warm smile. "So you finally decided to rejoin the living! How do you feel?"  
  
"W-weak," Gary replied honestly. "H-how l-l-long . . . w-w-as . . ." Frustrated, he lay his head back and closed his eyes, trying to picture each word he was trying to say. "H-how . . . l-long w-was . . . I-I . . . out?" He flashed his mom a triumphant smile as he managed not to stumble over the last word.  
  
"Three days after I first shot you full of my 'witches brew'," Dr. Fraiser told him. "Just two this last time." She pulled the covers up from the end of the bed, baring his feet. "Ready to see if it worked? Try curling your toes."  
  
Obediently, Gary concentrated all his will on his left foot. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture the toes on that foot, tried to see them curling inward. He had done it once, months ago. Before the night of that disastrous Halloween party. Why had he not been able to do it since? His brow creased with the intensity of his determination to move! Sweat popped out as he told himself that he would move that damned toe! He tried to tell himself he felt something. Some tiny movement. But he knew he was kidding himself. Frustrated, he relaxed his will with a weary sigh.  
  
"C-can't," he stammered. "N-no-th-thing."  
  
"That's okay, Gary," Dr. Fraiser smiled as she tucked the covers back under his mattress. "I really didn't expect anything this soon. Your muscles have to get used to making the effort, though, so keep trying. Have you noticed if you have anymore feeling in your legs?"  
  
"T-ting-ling," he murmured. "B-burns."  
  
Fraiser favored him with a tired smile at the news. "That's wonderful," she told him. "That's a very good sign. I think that, once all the toxins have finally left your system, we can expect to see more rapid improvement. Would you rather start your therapy here or back home?"  
  
"H-home," was Gary's quick reply. "S-soon?"  
  
"I think so," she told him, concealing her own doubts behind a hopeful smile. She took one of his hands in each of hers and told him to squeeze as tight as he could. His response was feeble, at best. It was as if her concoction had drained all the strength from his body. "Very good," she lied. The open, appraising look he gave her let her know she wasn't fooling him for a minute. A quick glance at his mother's hopeful expression told the doctor why he kept silent.  
  
"Why is he having so much trouble speaking?" Lois asked, knowing how much it was troubling her son.  
  
"I think the venom caused some paralysis to the vocal cords that neither the antivenin nor Dr. Fraiser's compound could remove entirely," Dr. Sloan spoke up. "You'll need intensive therapy for that, I'm afraid. There's also a chance that you suffered some damage to the speech center of your brain. Again, therapy is the solution. You won't suddenly wake up one day and find everything is back to normal, I'm afraid."  
  
A tiny grin flickered at the corner of Gary's mouth as he glanced at his mother. She returned his tentative smile as she shared their little inside joke.  
  
"Define 'normal'," she said.  
  
************************  
  
With a sigh, General Hammond laid aside yet another proficiency report as his phone rang. He picked it up on the second ring. "Hammond. Dr. Fraiser! How's . . . ? Oh. I see. What can I do . . .?" He grabbed a pad and pencil, hurriedly scribbling as she rattled off a list of items. "Some of these are . . . Calm down! I just want to be sure . . . Yes," he sighed. "You'll have everything by this evening. Yes. Can someone meet . . .? That's alright. They can take a cab if they have to. Just how serious is his situation?" He listened a moment, his expression growing grimmer with each second. "I've always cut Dr. Jackson a little slack," the general sighed, "because of all the tough breaks he's had to deal with. I'm beginning to believe that he and Mr. Hobson are in some bizarre competition. What kind . . .? Oh, to see which one the universe can dump on the most." He smiled as he listened to the doctor's acidic reply then bid her a good day, repeating his promise to send what she needed as soon as humanly possible.  
  
General Hammond's smile vanished as he reached for the intercom. Gary Hobson had saved the Stargate project from disaster twice in one day. The least they could do was help save his life.   
  
"Get me Colonel O'Neill."  
  
******************  
  
Gary couldn't understand what was wrong. Dr. Fraiser's injection had worked, at least to some extent. He was no longer trapped in that place where he was aware of his surroundings, but unable to communicate. He had fought his way back to consciousness! Why was it so hard, now, just to stay awake? At first, Gary tried to believe Dr. Fraiser when she told him he was still weak from his ordeal. If that was the case, why did he find himself drifting off in the middle of a conversation? Why did he feel weaker today than when he had first dragged himself back to consciousness?  
  
He slowly turned his head in response to a rapid series of taps on the door. A familiar face smiled at Gary from beneath a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair. Colonel Jack O'Neill stepped into the room at Gary's stammered invitation, closely followed by Daniel Jackson and Samantha Carter. As best he could, Gary introduced them to his mother and Chuck.  
  
"W-we m-m-met . . . c-coupla y-years ag-g-go," Gary told them in a barely audible voice. "Th-th-they . . ." He shot the trio a pleading look.  
  
"We work out of Cheyenne Mountain," Jack informed them. "Gary pulled Daniel and me out of a couple of tough spots while we were visiting Chicago a couple of summers ago." He turned to face the man on the bed. "What's with the 'Porky Pig' routine? Cat got your tongue . . . or . . . something," he finished lamely as he caught sight of Lois's fiery glare.  
  
"N-not . . . c-cat," Gary forced out from his uncooperative mouth. "Sssnnake." He was determined to speak for himself as much as possible. "Pa-ra-lys-is . . .m-may-be."  
  
"Bummer," the Colonel murmured sympathetically. "General Hammond wants to know if you and Danny boy, here, have some kind of competition going on. How many times is it, now, that you've died? Six? Seven?"  
  
"J-j-just ssssix," Gary replied. "D-d-d-didn't . . . d-d-die . . . th-th-this t-t-t-time."  
  
"Just missed it by a whisker," Chuck mumbled. "A cat's whisker."  
  
Daniel shot the little man a sharp look. "So . . . you two know about . . . the cat?" he asked.  
  
"Th-they kn-know m-m-most o-o-of mmmy sssssec-cretss," Gary stammered, shaking his head slightly. He didn't want them probing too deeply. Chuck and his Mom didn't know that these guys hadn't been told about the paper. The young anthropologist nodded to acknowledge the warning. "Wh-what b-brrings y-you g-guys . . . hhhere?"  
  
"Janet needed some equipment," Sam spoke up. "Some of the tests she wants to do are pretty specialized. The lab here just doesn't have what she needs. We decided to play courier as an excuse to see how you were doing."  
  
"What exactly is it that you do in that mountain?" Lois asked, curious. "And what did you mean about a 'competition'?" she added, giving Daniel a significant look.  
  
The young academic had the grace to blush under her scrutiny. "I, ahm, I've been in a few . . . accidents, myself," he told her. "M-mostly we do satellite surveys, for weather patterns, geological disturbances, even some reconnaissance. But my field is anthropology. I look for evidence of ancient civilizations. You know, old roads, dried riverbeds, indications of buried structures, that sort of thing."  
  
"Wow," Chuck murmured. "Satellites can see all that?"  
  
"If you eat breakfast on your patio tomorrow," O'Neill grinned, "I could tell you by tomorrow afternoon, if your eggs were 'over easy', or scrambled."  
  
Lois was keeping a close eye on her son, so she was instantly aware when his eyelids started to droop. She rose quietly, one finger to her lips, and began herding everyone out. "I'll be right back, sweetie," she promised. Gary nodded once, then closed his eyes with a sigh of weariness.  
  
"It's hard to believe," O'Neill murmured, "that this is the same guy who was leading us over rooftops just a year and a half ago."  
  
Chuck let out a low whistle. "You must've really been in hot water!" he remarked. "Heights make Gary nervous. Honestly, he gets dizzy on a stepladder."  
  
Samantha Carter glanced quickly at her younger colleague. "Something else you two have in common," she whispered. "Could you have been separated at birth?"  
  
"Ha ha," Daniel returned sarcastically. "I checked. I'm two months older than he is. You do know that there are a lot of differences between us, also, don't you? My hair is blonde, his is dark brown. I have blue eyes, his are . . . sorta brown, with heavy lids. His parents are still alive. So is his ex-wife. Just because we've both risen from the dead more times than Lazarus, and both have a problem with heights, doesn't make us 'karmic twins.' It's just . . . coincidence. That's all."  
  
O'Neill peeked in on the sleeping man. The steady rise and fall of his chest, and the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor were the only signs of life. "Janet said he's getting weaker instead of stronger," he commented. "How bad is it?"  
  
"He can barely stay awake five minutes at a time," Lois sighed. "You heard him trying to talk, just now. He can't get one word out without stuttering. And it's getting worse." She wiped at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. "I hope your Dr. Fraiser can help," she told him with a little sniffle. "I don't know what I'm going to do if she can't."  
  
*****************  
  
Gary wasn't really asleep. He didn't actually fall asleep as often as everyone thought. It was more like his own, personal 'Twilight Zone.' The young Guardian could hear most of what was said around him, and often knew whenever someone entered or left the room. He was just too wiped out to react. It worried him, this feeling of . . . lethargy. He was supposed to be getting better!   
  
Andrew. There was something about Andrew. Why couldn't he remember? Something about a battle. Against what . . . or whom? It was important. What was the 'battle' for? The 'soul of humanity'?. Why couldn't he remember?  
  
Grayness started creeping in around the edges of his mind. A soft, pervading sense of being . . . disconnected. Alone, yet not alone.   
  
'God, please help me,' he prayed. 'I don't understand any of this, and I'm so scared. Please tell me what I'm supposed to be doing. Just a clue, or a direction to start. I can't do this alone. No one can. Help me. Please.'  
  
*****************  
  
Lois eased back into the room and took up her customary place at the head of her son's bed. Her hand instantly went to the lock of hair peeking out from under the bandages that still wrapped his poor, abused head. Tears welled in her eyes as her fingers gently caressed his pale features. Why did the universe have to keep kicking her only offspring? What had he ever done to anyone that warranted such punishment?  
  
Chuck and those people from that place in Colorado were on their way to find Dr. Fraiser again. Maybe she had some good news for them. Gary could really use a little encouragement right about now. He stirred fitfully in his sleep, mumbling something that sounded like 'Help me.' What was he dreaming, she wondered. Nothing good if he was asking for help. Her heart ached to give him the assistance he was begging for. She felt so powerless! This was her baby! She should at least be able to comfort him! To let him know she was still here for him! He spent so much of his time sleeping now, she had to wonder if he could even hear her.  
  
"Sweetie," she murmured softly. "I think you can hear me. At least, I hope you can. A while ago you found out that your father and I weren't married when we created you. That you . . . that you weren't planned. You called yourself a 'mistake.' But you were no mistake, Gary. We may not have been thinking of starting a family, but you were the best thing that ever happened to us. God could not have given us a more wonderful sign that our union was meant to be. If I had a chance to do it all over again, I can think of a lot of things I could've done differently, but not if it meant never having you to give my life meaning. I love you, Gary, and your father loves you. Someday you'll find a woman who's worthy of the special gift of your love. You just have to live long enough to find her, sweetie! You have to!"  
  
As if in answer, Gary mumbled something too low for her to make out. Then he gave a long, soft moan and fell silent. Lois listened closely, waiting to see if he was about to wake up. As the silence continued, she became alarmed. Was he even breathing? She held a trembling hand close to his mouth. Oh, God! He wasn't ! Quickly, she hit the call button just as the monitor sounded its alarm. Looking up, she saw that Gary's heart rate had dropped. It had gone from what Dr. Sloan had told her was a 'low normal' rhythm to just a few beats per minute! What was going on? Grasping Gary by both shoulders, Lois shook her son as hard as she could!   
  
"Breathe, baby!" she pleaded. "Please, Gary! Wake up and breathe!"  
  
To her relief Gary drew in a long, slow breath just as the nurse rushed in. The heart monitor quickened slightly, but was still way too slow. His breathing was labored and slow. It was as if all his strength was needed just to stay alive!  
  
*****************  
  
Gary was spiraling down into darkness . . . again. He could feel his strength fading, like water pouring down a drain. Soon he would not have enough to fight whatever battle lay ahead. Did he still have a chance? Could he still prevail over his faceless enemy?   
  
Suddenly he found himself standing on a grassy plain, a stone-tipped spear clasped tightly in both hands. He was bleeding from several deep, ugly wounds. Still he stood his ground against the brutish figure that bore down on him with a stone ax. The primitive weapon carved a bloody arc through the hot, humid air. The warrior, who Gary had once been ducked under that savage blow to drive his own weapon upward, into the heart of his enemy. With a cry borne partly of rage, and mostly of sorrow, he thrust deep into that broad chest, praying to his God that the man die quickly, that he would not suffer a lingering, painful death. As the stone-aged savage dropped at his feet, the man, who bore the soul that would one day belong to Gary Hobson, collapsed beside his dying enemy. He, too, was badly wounded. He had, in fact, already received his death wound. Soon he would join the others who had given their lives in protection of the People. With a sigh, he gave his spirit over to the God of The People.  
  
He rode the whirlwind once more, tumbling end-over-end along the endless river of time.  
  
He was just one more soldier in a small army. They crouched shoulder-to-shoulder on the dusty hillside overlooking the enemy camp. Below, in a separate enclosure, he could see the villagers taken in yesterday's raid. Even from here, he could make out the huddled figures of his wife and child, destined to be sold into slavery to the decadent Romans. They could not allow such a fate to befall their families!   
  
Suddenly, the soldier, who would live many lives, felt that all too familiar wave of awareness. Danger! To whom? From what direction? There! An archer hidden in that copse of trees! He was taking aim on Marcos, their leader. No! They needed Marcos! He was the glue that bound their tiny army together. Without him to persuade, cajole and inspire them, many would have turned their backs on those stolen from hearth and home. They would have been content in their own safety and quietly mourned their loses. Marcos must live!   
  
With an inarticulate cry, the man who would live again threw himself forward, knocking the war leader off his feet. The arrow meant for Marcos sank itself deep into his chest! A terrible pain tore through him as the barbed missile pierced his lung, his heart! Dimly, he was aware of a cry of triumph as the assassin was slain by one of his brethren. For him, it was too late. As he lay dying, he begged God to watch over his family . . . to keep them safe.  
  
****************  
  
"We've had to put him back on the respirator," Dr. Travis sighed as he faced Lois Hobson. "He's just too weak to breathe without help."  
  
"Wh-what are his chances?" Lois stammered. "Is he . . . dying?"  
  
"Unless someone can come up with a miracle," Jesse replied earnestly. "If you know any good prayers, Mrs. Hobson, I'd get started on them if I were you. I started mine ten minutes ago."  
  
*****************  
  
Chuck wandered back to Gary's room, having become bored listening to Drs. Sloan and Fraiser swapping endless strings of medical jargon that sounded like so much Greek to him. Colonel O'Neill walked with him, telling Chuck how Gary had saved his and Dr. Jackson's life three times in one day. Possibly four.   
  
"And you say he's afraid of heights?" the officer asked in amazement.  
  
"Not afraid, exactly," Chuck shrugged. "He gets vertigo. His head starts swimming like Mark Spitz going for the gold medal. Usually, when he had to rescue someone off a ledge or something, he'd go right out there, get it done then spend an hour or so getting over the shakes."  
  
He was looking at O'Neill as they walked into the room, so Chuck didn't notice the empty bed at first. When he turned and saw the nurse turning back the sheets on a freshly made, and very empty, bed his heart plummeted all the way to his feet.   
  
"Wh-where's . . . where's the guy who was in that bed?" he asked nervously, dreading the answer.  
  
The nurse looked up, noticing the two men for the first time. "Are you friends of Mr. Hobson?" she asked sympathetically. As Chuck nodded in stunned silence, she sighed. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you. He's . . ."  
  
"He's dead?" Chuck whispered. "Gary's dead? That . . . that can't be! He was . . . he was talkin' to us just a little while ago! Right there! In that very bed! He can't be . . .!"  
  
"He's not!" the nurse was finally able to say. "But he has taken a turn for the worse. They had to take him back to ICU and put him on the respirator again. That's all I know."  
  
Chuck flopped down in a chair as his knees gave way. For a moment, he thought his heart was going to stop! Gar was alive! Still alive! He buried his face in his hands and wept. 'Thank you, God!' he prayed. 'Thank you for giving him one more day. One more chance. Thank you!'   
  
O'Neill calmly stood by, one hand on the smaller man's shoulder, until Fishman could get himself under control. How many times had he been forced to stand by in similar circumstances as one or more of his teammates' lives hung in the balance?  
  
"What say we go check on your friend?" he asked gently.  
  
Chuck wiped the tears from his face and nodded wordlessly. He couldn't trust himself to speak, just yet. Gar was alive. That was all that mattered. His best friend in the whole world still lived. For now.  
  
*************  
  
The man, who's soul would one day call itself Gary Hobson, now dodged in and out among the thick copse of trees, trying to stay just one step ahead of his pursuers. Why did there have to be so much killing? Did God really want innocent women and children slain in His name? Which had more value? A life taken because they chose a different path? Or a life turned back to the service of God? Who had the right to say how God chose to be worshipped. He had refused to put a defenseless family to the sword. Now he was being hunted, by his own brethren, as a traitor to the king! A king in name only, as he had not yet won the throne. The young man, who had so recently taken on the mantle of a Guardian, found himself doubting the validity of the usurper's claim. On the other hand, did he truly wish to serve so blood- handed a monarch that he would murder his own spiritual leaders, his own people out of spite for being refused a divorce? Were any of the so called 'nobility' any better? They seemed more interested in domination and bloodshed than in actually governing their people.   
  
So now he ran from Protestant and Catholic alike. Every man's hand against him because he refused to kill.   
  
The grayness swallowed him again, sending him swirling and diving through the rivers of time and space. Lives past, life present, lives yet to be lived. All were strung out before him like links on a chain that stretched out into infinity.  
  
He lay, battered and bruised, on another dusty plain. Dragged there by the man who had saved him from his enemies, who thought him dead. He would not die. Not now, not on this day. He would find the men behind this. The men who had robbed him of his way of life. He had to live. No way in hell would he let those devils have the satisfaction of killing him!   
  
The man known, in this life, as Charles Main, clawed his way back to consciousness. The devil would not win this round, he vowed silently. He would live!  
  
The darkness enclosed him as his weary soul was once more whisked from one time and place to another. How many times had he ridden this maelstrom of pain and suffering? How far back in time was the beginning of his soul's journey toward the light? How many lives lay ahead before his journey was complete?  
  
It was dark; the eerie, silvery darkness which was typical of the hours just before dawn. He lay on his bunk, half awake, wondering what it was that had disturbed his sleep.   
  
'Mmmrrr?'  
  
What? The cat, here? What would the cat be doing . . .? Jimmy sat bolt upright as that familiar chill ran up his spine. There, at the foot of his bunk, was a folded newspaper. Even in the dim light of the crescent moon he could see the bold banner of the Chicago Phoenix. The headline story told of a sneak attack in the pre-dawn hours and of the entire base being wiped out to a man!  
  
He flung the paper aside as he quickly roused his bunk mates, actually dumping some of them on the floor in his haste to spread the alarm! They barely had time to pull on their pants, many of them running out in bare feet as the unmistakable sound of aircraft engines filled the air! Jimmy was the first to his station, taking aim at the lead plane just as the sun was peeking over the eastern horizon. Making each shot count, Jimmy took out one plane after another. He hated the killing; knew that for each plane that went down, a life was given over to whatever God these people believed in. It also meant that the lives that mattered most to him, at this time, had a chance to continue for just one more day. One more day that could bring this dreadful war that much closer to being over. He had to take consolation in that, knowing that he would not have been warned if he were not meant to stop this tragedy.  
  
On the floor of his barracks, the paper he had tossed aside changed. It still told of the horror and devastation of the pre-dawn attack, but now only listed one casualty. Jimmy barely had time for a quick prayer before the bullets tore into his chest, knocking him to the ground. As the life drained from his body, he finished his plea that God watch over Daria and the child he would never see.  
  
****************  
  
Dr. Fraiser gave an exultant cry as her new compound attacked and eradicated the foreign substance that was eating away at Gary Hobson's red blood cells. It hadn't been easy. The tiny physician had never seen anything like this before! She couldn't understand how it had gotten into her patient to begin with. Could it have been when he bit that jaffa's ear? She didn't believe for one minute that it was a result of the snakebite! Still, she finally had the solution. Now all she had to do was synthesize enough to give the dying man a fighting chance. If he could just hang in there a little longer!  
  
***************  
  
Gary was once again in that place between light and darkness, a place that was right on the razor's edge of life and death. He could feel his mom's presence, could smell her hand lotion as her gentle fingers caressed his face. He wanted to speak to her, to tell her . . . what? That he loved her? That he was sorry to be causing her so much pain? Somehow he felt she already knew that and so much more. He just wanted to talk to her, period.   
  
"You have to keep fighting, Gary."  
  
Startled, he spun around to see a slender figure surrounded by a soft glow. Gary was able to make out long, dark auburn hair framing elfin features. The woman seemed . . . familiar somehow. "M-Monica?"  
  
"Yes, Gary," she replied with a radiant smile. "I've been sent to ask you to keep trying. To tell you that your world, your family still needs you."  
  
"Don't you think I know that?" Gary moaned. "I'm trying to hang on, I really am. But it's hard. I'm so . . . so weak, and tired. Just a little more strength. Please? Just enough to hang on a little longer? I can't do this alone."  
  
"It's always been yours for the asking," the angel told him. She stepped closer, placing a hand to either side off his face. Instantly Gary felt an influx of energy that swept away the all-pervading lethargy, which had been sucking the life from him since he had first awakened from the snakebite. "Better?"  
  
"Y-yes," Gary stammered, surprised. "M-much better. Thank you." He looked around at the limbo realm they currently inhabited. "Can you tell me what this place is? And what all that other stuff was about? Was I really all those other people?"  
  
"Those and many more," Monica responded. "Your soul was chosen for this task at the beginning of time, Gary Hobson. You have lived more lifetimes than you could ever imagine. You have been wise man and warrior, beggar and slave. You have always been less than you truly deserve. Many times you have given your life so that others might live. People whom you placed enough faith in to carry on your battle after you were gone. You have faith in your family and friends, but the one chosen to carry on the mantle of Guardian is not yet ready for the burden."  
  
"I know," Gary sighed. "She's just a kid. It'll be . . . what? Another twenty years before she's ready for this. God knows, I sure wasn't."  
  
"But you were, Gary," the angel replied with a smile. "You were born for this task. And you have carried it throughout the millennia. As always, you had to . . . how do you mortals say it? Ah, yes. You had to 'come up to speed.' Right away you saw the good you could do by giving Marissa the money to buy a guide dog. You stumbled, at first. But you never stopped trying. God has given you just a small glimpse of what has gone before. He did it so that you would know that he has always been with you, and always will be."  
  
"I still have to work within what's possible for me to . . . to accomplish," Gary sighed, "don't I? I can't save everyone, and I can't bring the dead back to life." He paused, looking down at his legs. Raising his eyes to meet her sympathetic gaze, he asked, "W-will I ever walk again?"  
  
"If you work at it hard enough, yes," Monica told him. "To do that, you must first . . ."  
  
********************  
  
". . . wake up, Gary," Lois prayed as she watched Dr. Fraiser inject her latest formula into the IV. "You have to keep fighting, sweetie," she pleaded. "We need you. I need you! Don't give up. Please don't give up."  
  
"I've included a hefty dose of adrenaline," Dr. Fraiser told her older colleague. "That, the serum, and some glucose should give him the strength to fight this. All we can do now is wait."  
  
Dr. Sloan was watching the monitors as she spoke. Was there just a slight rise in the heart rate? "How long before we see a significant change?" he asked.  
  
"I honestly don't know," Janet sighed. "This is uncharted territory, Mark. I've never seen anything like this before. All any of us can do now is wait . . . and pray."  
  
Mark Sloan looked over at the bowed heads of Lois Hobson and Chuck Fishman. "I think those two pretty much have that covered."  
  
*************  
  
"Hello, sweetheart," Lois Hobson said into the phone. She had left Chuck to watch over Gary for any sign of recovery so that she could bring her husband up to date. "No, there's not been any change, yet. He's still depending on that . . . machine to breathe. How's everything with the . . . you know. Oh, Bernie! You didn't! Why didn't you . . .? He was where? Bernard Hobson! What am I going to do with you? If I ever hear of you doing anything like that . . . Don't you give me 'sorry', mister! Your son is hanging on to life by a thread, and you're out there trying to be 'Superman'! Alright! Alright. I'm calm. Yes, dear. I still love you, But if I dared leave Gary for one day, I'd be on the next plane back! No! What makes you think I'd trust you after what you just told me?" She listened for a moment, tapping her foot impatiently. "Okay," she sighed. "Give Marissa and Crumb my regards, and tell them I'll call as soon as there's any change. And, Bernie, if I ever hear of you jumping off another ledge . . .! Bernie? Bernie? Rats! He hung up."  
  
****************  
  
The first they knew of any improvement came when the alarm sounded on the respirator. Lois's head snapped up at the strident clamor. What she saw set her heart to pounding like a trip hammer.   
  
Gary's head was turning from side to side as he tried to force the ventilator tube from his mouth. He made feeble groaning sounds as his eyelids fluttered. He was waking up!   
  
Lois tried to calm her restless son, taking his face in both hands as she made soft 'shushing' noises. "It's okay, sweetie," she crooned. "Momma's here. Just take it easy. Chuck, go get Dr. Sloan. Now! I'm here, Gary." She went from giving instructions to comforting her child without raising her voice or missing a beat. "Don't fight the tube, sweetie. It's helping you breathe. That's it. Just let the machine do all the work. Dr. Sloan will be here in a minute to take it out."  
  
She was still crooning encouragements to him when the team of physicians arrived with Chuck hot on their heels. Dr. Sloan hurriedly checked the monitors. He then bent over to do a quick visual check of his patient. What he saw brought a huge smile to his careworn features.  
  
"Absolutely amazing," he murmured. "Gary, I want you to hold very still," he told the   
feebly struggling man. "I'm going to remove this tube from your throat." He nodded at Dr. Fraiser to shut off the ventilator. "Now, when I tell you to, I want you to cough. It'll help the tube to slide out easier. Now, one . . . two . . . three! Cough!"  
  
Gary responded with a loud, hacking cough that almost expelled the tube without assistance. He continued to cough for several seconds after the obstruction was gone. When he could finally get his breath, Gary lay back, content simply to be breathing under his own power. Finally, he opened his eyes to see five anxious faces staring down at him.  
  
"S-some-th-thing . . . w-wrong?" he asked, puzzled by their relieved smiles. "Wh-wh-what . . . hhhap-pened?"  
  
"Nothing, hon," Lois said with a tearful smile. "You just took a little nap is all. How do you feel?"  
  
"W-weird," he murmured. "H-head . . . sswim-ming." He met his mother's tired, red-rimmed eyes. "Y-you . . .'k-kay? L-look . . . t-t-tired."  
  
"One of these days," Lois chuckled, "you're going to wake up from one of these little naps and forget to ask how everyone else is. Then I'll be really worried."  
  
Gary gave her a hurt, puzzled look before closing his eyes once more. They shot open an instant later with a frightened, haunted look as vague memories of death flitted across his mind. He tried to sit up, only to have both Drs. Sloan and Fraiser place restraining hands on his shoulders.  
  
"Just relax," Janet crooned softly. "You're a lot stronger than you were an hour ago, but you're nowhere near strong enough to be moving around much. Now, we're going to keep you in here for one more day, then you get a private room. Until then, don't exert yourself any more than you absolutely have to. Understand?"  
  
"Sh-sure," Gary murmured drowsily. "S-slee-py a-any-w-way." His eyes drifted closed as he spoke, staying closed this time. His chest rose and fell in a reassuring rhythm.  
  
"I, ahm, I'll go tell the others he's okay," Chuck said in a thick voice, wiping tears from his face. "Excuse me."  
  
"Hurry back," Lois whispered. "I'll need to call Bernie and I don't want him to wake up alone."  
  
"Got it," Chuck nodded. "Back in five." The little man quickly ducked out, a wide grin splitting his lean features.  
  
Janet watched him go, failing to repress her own smile of relief as she made notes on Gary's chart. For a time, she had been uncertain if she could find a cure in time. She still had no clue as to what that alien substance was, or how it had gotten into Hobson's system. It was miracle enough that she was able to find the right formula to counteract it. It was things like this which reminded her that, sometimes, science couldn't provide all the answers. Sometimes you just had to go on faith.  
  
****************  
  
Something was . . . not right. Gary had grown used to the sounds of the monitor and the murmur of voices in the background. There were always at least two or three nurses at the desk, with one always keeping a sharp eye on the bank of monitors. Their voices provided a soft counterpoint to the beeping of the machines. How he knew all this was a puzzle that Gary was in no hurry to solve. What did bother him, at this time, was the total absence of sound! Looking around, he saw his mother leaning back in her seat, apparently sound asleep. Through the window behind her, he could see one of the nurses. She was standing next to the corner of the desk, frozen in the act of talking to someone. One hand was half raised in an expansive gesture, while her mouth was pursed as if she were in the midst of speaking when the paralysis hit her.  
  
Gary had a feeling that, if he could see the others, he would see them frozen in place as well. His mom was probably under a similar enchantment.  
  
"Bout time you woke up, sugah."  
  
Gary turned his head to find a slender young black woman staring at him. Her elfin features reminded him somewhat of Monica, while her accent was soft and very southern. The look in her almond eyes, however, was pure malice.   
  
"Wh-who . . .?"  
  
"They call me Kathleen," she purred. "Not that it matters. You have this nasty habit of messin' up my plans, darlin'. That's got to stop. Ya heah?"  
  
"Wh-what . . . p-plans?" Gary asked, genuinely puzzled.  
  
"That dear man, Mr. Marley," she told him as she sauntered up to his bed. "He was supposed to ruin that Snow character's name. Keep him from savin' you from that truck. That was his last wish before having to face my Master. His 'second chance,' as it were. The same for poor Mr. Savalas. I was so sure he'd get the job done. That he would either kill you or drive you to kill yourself. But you are one remarkably hard man to kill. Then there was that young man on the pier. I've been working on him for years!" She stopped at the edge of Gary's bed, reaching her right hand out to caress his cheek. "You're oh-so-noble actions made him take a closer look at himself, and I lost him."  
  
Gary cringed from her chill touch, trying to move as far to the other side of the bed as he could. Which wasn't very far. "H-how . . . d-d-do . . .y-you . . .?"  
  
"How do you think?" Kathleen favored him with a smoldering, seductive smile. "Did you think all yoah good deeds would only attract one kind of attention?" She turned her gaze toward his mother. "Lovely woman. Be a shame if something 'happened' to her."  
  
A chill ran down Gary's spine at the casual way she delivered her threat.  
  
"Then there was that little incident at the hotel," she continued. "If that child had died, his father would have been driven into a sordid, pathetic life of drink and drugs. The mother would have taken her own life. Both would have been mine for the takin'. Then you had to go and save the little brat," she snapped, her ire beginning to show. "And that plane! Do you have any idea how hard it was to time that storm just right and to foul up the landin' geah at the same time? That bit with the Stargate was just luck, and you managed to mess that up, too. I thought I had you with those aliens, but I guess you can't depend on foreigners to do anything right." She perched on the side of the bed, amused by the fear she saw in Gary's eyes.   
  
"W-w-were y-you be-hind th-the sssnake a-a-at . . . d-d-doc-tor Ssssloan's?" he stammered defiantly.  
  
"Nnnoo," Kathleen replied, mockingly, with a tiny smile and a shake of her head. "That was just a young man looking to add to his collection. But it put such a wonderful idea in my head. You see, that snake on the bluff? That was me. I had to do something, you see? You were screwin' up my plans again! That young woman needed to die right then! And you still saved her!" She slapped the mattress with both hands and sprang to her feet. "You have messed up everything!" she snapped, turning a fiery glare on the hapless man. "Yoah interference must be stopped!"  
  
Gary flinched as he saw real fire in her eyes! He could feel the heat of her anger even from where he lay. He tried to push himself up in the bed, only to find that he was still too weak from his recent illness.   
  
"Y-you g-go t-t-t-to hhhhhell!" he stammered defiantly. "I-I'm . . . nnnot . . . g-g-gonna ssstop hhelp-ing p-p-peo-ple j-j-just ss-ss-so y-you c-c-can mmeet sssome qu-quota!"  
  
Kathleen's eyes flashed even hotter as she took a step back towards the bed. "You insignificant, stuttering little . . . mortal!" she hissed.  
  
"That's enough, Kathleen."  
  
Gary jerked his head around to see Monica walk out of the clear glass partition, bathed in a soft glow. The same as she had been in his 'dream.' The auburn-haired angel wore an expression of barely suppressed anger.   
  
"Direct interference is forbidden!" she told the dark skinned entity. "You may influence mortals to harm each other. You may not harm them directly!"  
  
"Yoah only sayin' that 'cause he's one of yoah's!" Kathleen sneered. "Because he's one of yoah precious 'Guardians Of The Light!' He's mortal! I can snuff him out like a candle!"  
  
"And we can bring him back just as easily," Monica retorted. "Did you not wonder that none of your attempts on his life had succeeded? Gary cannot die before his designated time, unless he so chooses! That is how it has been. That is how it will always be, until the end of time. Only God has the power to change that decree. And I don't believe he will do so just to please your master." She said that last word with an uncharacteristic note of contempt. As she stepped further into the room, Monica's expression softened. "Come back to us, Kathleen," she pleaded, holding her hands out to the other entity. "You can't be happy serving such a dark purpose. Come back into the light of God's love. He will forgive anything," she added. "All you have to do is ask."  
  
For a moment, Gary thought he saw a flicker of sadness cross those darkly elfin features. No. Not just sadness. He also saw honest regret. Then it was gone, to be replaced by a cold look of pure hatred.  
  
"You know better than that, Monica," she spat. "Once he wraps his hand around yoah heart, theah's no turnin' back." She turned that baleful gaze on the man in the bed. "Watch yourself, sugah. I'm not done with you yet." Then she was gone. She didn't fade out, walk out through the wall, or vanish in a puff of smoke. She simply was no longer . . . there.  
  
Puzzled, Gary turned to the figure that still stood at his right hand. Reaching for the controls, he raised the head of the bed until he could look her in the eye. "Wh-wh-whhat jj-just hhhap-pened?" he asked.  
  
"You have just met the one behind most of your recent trials," Monica sighed. "She was once one of us, an angel in the service of God. Then, she let ambition blind her to her mission, turning to a less benevolent master in her quest for recognition."  
  
"A-and sshhee's b-be-hhind . . .?" He gestured down at his legs.  
  
"No," the angel sighed. "That was done by the powers behind your paper," she told him. "As we told you before, you could not have been there for Jean otherwise. It was also done to save your life. If you had not been pulled back through time, Lucius Snow would not have been able to escape Marley's evil scheme. And you would have died thirteen years later. Also, all the people that you and Snow have saved over the years would have died."  
  
Gary took a moment to digest this information. In a weird sort of way, it all made sense now. He was caught in an endless battle between the forces of light and darkness, with the fate of everything, and everyone, he loved hanging in the balance. It seemed a little unfair to have so much of the burden resting on him alone, yet he couldn't think of anyone else whom he could trust with such a huge responsibility. He looked over at his mother's face. She wore such a calm, peaceful expression. He knew, without a single doubt, that it was because she knew he was going to be alright. How could he turn his back on such love? How could he even think of abandoning her, or anyone else to face the forces of darkness alone?   
  
With renewed determination and a weary sigh, he turned to face the angel once more, his eyes full of sadness. "Ssssoo," he murmured. "Wh-what hhap-pens . . . nnow?"  
  
"You go back to sleep, Gary Hobson," Monica told him with a sad little smile. She brushed soft fingertips through his dark hair as she bent down to place a gentle kiss on the birthmark just below his right sideburn. "You will remember none of this when you awake," she whispered. "Such knowledge is not meant for mortals to deal with. You will recall only that you must be strong and vigilant, and that you must not give up. Sleep, now, and be well."  
  
She kissed him once more as his eyes drifted shut, fluttered open, then slid down as he slipped into a deep, restful sleep. Monica lowered the head of the bed until it was in its former position. Reaching out to lay a gentle finger on Gary's upper lip, she whispered, "Don't tell what you know."  
  
*****************  
  
When Gary next opened his eyes, it was to see his mother stretching languorously before meeting his puzzled gaze.  
  
"Hi, sweetie," she murmured softly. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"B-bet-ter," he stammered. "Wh-why'm I b-back . . .?"  
  
"You don't remember?" When he shook his head 'no', Lois quickly explained about his relapse. "It scared me to death when you stopped breathing, Gary. No pun intended. I thought I'd lost you for good. I mean, how many times can you keep coming back from the dead?"  
  
"N-n-not a qu-ques-tion I-I'm rrready t' a-a-ans-wer," he replied haltingly. "C-can wwe, sh-sh-shelve . . . it . . .f-f-for llllat-er?"  
  
"Gladly!" Lois chuckled. "Much, much later!"  
  
*****************  
  
"CT, MRI, EEG," Dr. Sloan sighed. "All normal. That leaves us with residual paralysis from the snakebite." He turned to face the man on the bed, and his mother. "This is rare, but not completely unheard of. The effects, meaning the stiffness of the vocal cords and the difficulty in shaping your mouth to fit what you're trying to say, should diminish in time. Meanwhile, you need to keep trying to force the muscles to remember how it's done. The speech therapist, who spoke with you this morning, assures me that repetition is the key, in this case. Repeating a phrase over and over, or a particular word that you're having difficulty with, should help. Also, she gave me a list of simple exercises you can do. They're similar to what actors use to learn a certain accent, or voice training for singers. Mel Tillis, a famous country music singer, stutters. Yet, he has a marvelous singing voice."  
  
"Ya hear that, Gar?" Chuck spoke up from his seat by the door. "Maybe we can get you on the 'Grand Ol' Opry'?"  
  
Gary shot his friend a sour look, ignoring the chuckles from O'Neill, as well as the snickers from Carter and his mother. Jackson, at least, had the grace to look away to hide his grin. Turning back to the two doctors, he asked the question uppermost in his mind. "Wh-what a-about . . . lllegs?"  
  
"Have you tried moving them, like I told you?" Fraiser asked.  
  
"Everyday," Chuck replied, sparing his friend the strain and embarrassment. "Fifteen, twenty times before lunch, even. Nada. Zilch."  
  
"You have to keep trying," the diminutive physician sighed. "All our tests show that, whatever that substance was, it's gone. You just have to remind your muscles of what they have to do. That will take every ounce of determination, and patience that you have, Gary. But if you ever want to walk again, you can't give up."  
  
Laying his head back with a sigh, Gary wondered why that last phrase rang so loud in his mind.  
  
*************  
  
It had taken hours of persuasion, pleading, begging, reasoning, and finally outright threats to get Lois Hobson to finally agree to lie down in a real bed and get some much needed sleep. Gary had been getting worried about her. Her increasingly haggard appearance only fed his own feelings of guilt that he was the cause of her exhaustion. It was this, more than anything else, which finally swayed her. She did not want to be the cause of any more pain for her son.  
  
After Lois had been 'tucked in' a few doors down the hall, Chuck appeared with an object in a large brown shopping bag.  
  
"You remember that John Wayne movie where he fell down some stairs and was paralyzed?" he asked his friend. "'Wings Of Eagles', I think it was called."  
  
Gary nodded hesitantly. He did recall bits and pieces. The Duke had been away from home so much, he had been unfamiliar with the layout of his own home. So, when he got up in the middle of the night to check on one of his daughters, he had fallen down the stairs. But other than the stairs and the paralysis, he couldn't see the connection.  
  
"Okay!" Chuck continued enthusiastically. "Now, you remember how his buddy, Jughead, got him back on his feet?" He revealed the contents of the bag with a flourish. "Tadaaa! He used a ukulele! He kept playing on one of these gizmo's and singing until the Duke moved his foot just to shut him up! And that's what we're gonna do! I'll play, and you're gonna keep repeating that thing he was saying over and over. It'll be like, you know, speech therapy, too."  
  
"Y-y-y-you're c-c-c-ra-zy!" Gary stammered. "C-can't c-c-con-cen-t-t-trate . . . o-on b-b-both!"  
  
"Sure you can!" his buddy urged. "Just repeat after me. 'I'm gonna move that toe. Oh! I'm gonna move that toe. Oh!' Like that. C'mon!"  
  
With a resigned sigh, Gary lay his head back. Chuck was not going to let it rest. "C-c-can yyou ev-en puh-lay th-that th-thing?"  
  
"What's to play?" he shrugged. "You just bang your fingers on the strings. A five-year-old can do it."  
  
"Th-then g-go ff-ff-find a ff-ffive y-year o-o-old, 'c-cause y-y-you c-c-can't c-c-car-ry t-tune."  
  
"Skeptic!" the young producer snorted. "Let's get to work, you slacker! 'I'm gonna move that toe! Oh! I'm gonna move . . .' C'mon, Gar! Work with me on this! We can do it! Now, repeat after me!"  
  
As Chuck banged away at the hapless ukulele, Gary haltingly repeated that stupid phrase. Dear God! Anything to stop that racket! At the same time, he tried to visualize his right toe. Tried to see it moving. For once, he actually hoped Chuck was on to something.  
  
**************  
  
"G-gon-na m-m-moove t-t-toe," Gary repeated for about the five hundredth time. He had his head back, and his eyes closed. His voice was harsh and raspy from repeated use. Plus, by this time, the third day of Chuck's 'therapy', they had gathered quite an audience. It hadn't helped at all when O'Neill had gone out and gotten a banjo so he could join in the chorus. Sam Carter, Gary's mom, and two of the nurses would start clapping 'time' occasionally. Even the other patients would get in on the act, when possible. Gary was beginning to get that awful 'freak show' feeling again. 'Please, God!' he prayed. 'Something, anything to shut him up!' "M-mm-oove t-t-toe!" he rasped. "M-mm-oove . . . t-t-toe!"   
  
"You can do better than that, Hobson!" O'Neill snorted. "You're startin' to sound like a cow!"  
  
Gary had closed his eyes to concentrate on the image of that right toe moving, and to shut out O'Neill's laconic grin. Just a twitch. Anything! He was putting so much of himself into visualizing that simple act, he couldn't say, later, when all the noise stopped.   
  
"Oh, my God!" he heard someone whisper. "Look!" He thought it was Chuck, but his voice sounded funny. "Gary! Open your eyes and look!"  
  
Fighting back a feeling of annoyance, Gary raised the head of his bed halfway and did as he was told, looking first at Chuck's shocked features, then at the spot on the bed his amazed friend was pointing to. It was his toe. He gave Chuck a look that said, 'So?'  
  
"Do it again!" O'Neill murmured, his banjo dangling from slack fingers. "C'mon, Gary! Do it one more time!"  
  
"D-d-do wh-what?" he grumbled. Annoyed, he shifted uncomfortably in the bed . . . and froze. Did he just . . .? Had it really . . .? Experimentally, he concentrated once more, keeping his eyes on that foot. Slowly, almost as if they were just waking up, the first three toes on his right foot curled inward. Stunned, he tried again. It hurt, but he had been hurting almost continuously since that last session in the unit. That had just been pain. This . . . this was salvation!   
  
"Try the other one," Daniel urged. "Th-the left one, Gary! Move the left one!"  
  
Biting his lip in concentration, Gary focused his attention where Jackson had fixed his. At first, it appeared that one miracle was all he was going to get today. Then . . . it twitched. Just a tiny, almost imperceptible, motion. Gary was afraid he had imagined it. Holding his breath, he tried again. The big toe twitched, then slowly moved back and forth.   
  
Gary looked up at the crowd of smiling faces and found that he couldn't speak at all! His breath caught in his throat as his emotions scattered to the four winds. He felt . . . elated, scared, hopeful, eager, terrified . . .! A choked laugh escaped as he stared down at those slowly wiggling digits. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he looked up to meet his mom's glistening eyes.   
  
"You did it!" she said in a choked whisper. "You really did it!"   
  
Then Lois crossed the room in a single step, flinging her arms around her son so tight, he couldn't breathe! When Gary started wheezing, she eased her grip just enough for him to get a breath in. She was still pressed against him so firmly that he could feel her rapid heartbeat, the wetness of her tears soaking into his hospital gown.  
  
"Ssss'okay, Mmmom," he whispered, his own tears running down to mingle with hers as he returned her embrace. "Ssss'okay. W-w-we kn . . . kn-new . . . h-h-had t-t-to g-g-get . . . b-break . . . sssomed-d-day."  
  
"I know," she sniffed. "I know. It's just . . . I was beginning to lose hope!"  
  
O'Neill and Chuck started quietly herding everyone else out the door. Their job was done. What the Hobson's needed, now, was a little privacy. Gary nodded at his friends, flashing them a tearful smile of gratitude and mouthing the words 'Thank you' as they waved a cheerful 'farewell.' As the door closed behind them, Chuck saw his best friend bury his face in his mother's hair. Gary's shoulders were shaking slightly as he gave in to his own tumultuous emotions.   
  
***********  
  
The next few days were very hectic for the Hobsons. Gary spent every morning in either physical, or speech, therapy. The latter was mentally and emotionally taxing, but could be done in his room. The former required a trip to the therapy department, and opened up a whole new world of torment.   
  
"Th-they hhave . . . mmmee c-c-crawl-ing lllike . . . b-bab-y," Gary stammered, giving vent to a sigh of patient suffering. "Ssssaid it'ssss t-t-to im-p-prove c-co-or-din-a-tion."  
  
Lois looked up from the large book she was leafing through to favor him with a sympathetic smile. "I know it's hard, Gary," she told him, "and a little embarrassing. That's why I quit going with you. But you have to stick with it." She turned her attention back to the book.  
  
"I w-w-will," he promised. Gary cocked his head to get a better look at the object that took up most of his mother's lap. "I-i-isn't th-that . . . ff-ff-fam-ly . . . al-b-bum?"  
  
"Hmm?" She shot him a puzzled look, then glanced down at the huge tome of pictures and newspaper clippings. "Oh! Yes, it is. When you were unconscious, before we were sure there was no brain damage, the doctors were concerned that you might have a loss of memory. So, I called your dad and told him to pack this up and send it by Fed-Ex . So, of course it just got here this morning. As it turned out we didn't need it, anyway. Your memory is fine."  
  
Lois carried the overstuffed album over and laid it out on Gary's lap. "Remember this one?" she smiled. "You and Joe in your first Little League uniforms. You were both so cute!" Turning a few pages, she pointed at a newspaper clipping. "And this . . . this was when you two were chosen for the 'All stars.' Your father and I were so proud!"  
  
Gary smiled as she flipped the pages, pointing out more childhood scenes and triumphs. His eyes widened as he put a shaky finger on an all too familiar picture. "Wh-what's th-that?" he whispered.  
  
Puzzled, Lois peered more closely at the scene that had so obviously upset her son. "That?" she mused. "That was taken the first day we got the 'Gray Ghost.' Don't you remember? That picture sat on the mantel for years, then we decided to put it in here to make room for your wedding pic . . ."  
  
"N-n-no!" Gary stammered. "Th-th-this!" He reached over and slowly pulled a faded lavender envelope, with a floral pattern, from behind the 8x10 photo. Scrawled across the front, in his own handwriting were the words 'Mom and Dad.' Stunned, he stared at the aged paper as if afraid it would bite him.  
  
"That's odd," Lois murmured, taking the envelope from his trembling fingers. "I don't recall putting that in there. You know, my sister, your Aunt Jennifer, gave me this for Christmas one year. I loved the pattern so much I almost never used it except for special occasions. I ran out a few weeks after we got back from that horrid essay contest. You must've written this then, but I don't remember ever reading it."   
  
"Sss'okay," Gary mumbled, reaching to take the envelope back before she could open it. He wasn't quick enough, however. "R-r-real-ly, Mmm-mom," he pleaded. "I-if . . . w-was im-p-por-tant, w-w-we . . .w-w-ould hhhave r-r-re-mem-bered."  
  
Holding the stationery just out of his reach, Lois favored her son with a curious look. "Why don't you want me to see this?" she asked, even as she was sliding the single piece of paper out of its container.   
  
Defeated, Gary lay back, watching the play of emotions on his mother's face as she read his brief note. Saw her eyes widen in shock and disbelief. Her lips moved, shaping words without sound as her mind took in all the implications of the note's existence.   
  
"I-I th-th-thought I w-w-was . . . der-ream-ing," he told his mother as she slowly lowered the paper to stare at him. "Ha-luc-cin-a-tion."  
  
"This is impossible," Lois said, shaking her head. "I mean . . . this can't . . . It never happened, Gary! How can I be holding a note you never wrote?"  
  
A sad, tired smile flickered across Gary's features as he gave his mother a sidelong look. "W-wel-c-ome t-to 'Tw-twi-l-light Zzzone," he told her.  
  
*****************  
  
Lois waited until Gary was asleep before calling home again. Bernie would insist on talking to him and she just didn't feel that Gary was up to that, yet.  
  
"Hi, sweetie," Lois greeted him, smiling. "He's fine. Therapy is going well, but he hasn't tried to stand, yet. No, his speech therapy is . . . well, he's having problems with that. He's always had a little stutter when he's nervous or excited. Well, all the attention makes him really nervous. That's right, so we can't tell if the therapy is working or not. Um. Are you having any problems with, um, the cat? Oh, good! No more little 'adventures'? Th-that's good," she said with a relieved sigh. "So things have been pretty quiet? Well, Gary will want to know when he wakes up. Sure, hon, I'll give him your love. Oh! I almost forgot. Did you happen to put an envelope behind the picture of us with the 'Gray Ghost'? Oh. No reason. Bye, dear." She hung up the phone, grateful that she was already sitting down. She never knew what kind of trouble Bernie might get into with the paper. As much as she loved and admired her husband, he was just not as responsible a person as their son.  
  
**************  
  
O'Neill and Jackson came by, one day, while he was in Physical Therapy. They found Gary pushing himself forward along the floor by inches, using only his legs and elbows. A task made harder by the lingering weakness in his extremities. When he caught sight of his visitors, Gary hung his head to hide his embarrassment. He wondered what kind of wisecrack O'Neill would come up with for this predicament.  
  
"I'm not saying a word," the colonel promised. "Not about something this serious."  
  
"Th-thank yyyou," Gary murmured. He turned himself over until he was sitting propped on his elbows. As his visitors stood by, he slid back until he could lever himself into his chair. Once he was properly seated, he thanked the young lady who had been overseeing his session, and turned his attention to the two men. "Thh-oughtt yyyyou'dd mmbe ggg-on hhhomme nnnow," he said.  
  
"The general wants us to stick around until you're ready to go home," Daniel replied. "Actually, he wants us to escort you back to the mountain so Dr. Fraiser can run a few more tests. She thinks she may have a few tricks that'll speed up your recovery."  
  
Gary eyed the two men suspiciously. O'Neill was trying just a little too hard to look innocent. "Whhat'ss zzzthe ca-catch?"  
  
"Why does there have to be a catch?" O'Neill asked. "Can't we just do you a favor or two?"  
  
"I-it's nnev-er zzzat eeas-y wa-ith yyyyou . . .ga-uys," Gary stammered. "T-t-tell mmme whwhwhat yyooou wwwant."  
  
"Wwwell," Daniel spoke up hesitantly. "The, um, the cure is not . . . here, so to speak. It's . . . elsewhere."  
  
A feeling of dread crawled up and down Gary's spine as the young archaeologist's meaning sank in. He would never forget that wild ride as long as he lived!  
  
"Nnno th-thank kew," Gary stammered hurriedly. "Nnnev-ver a-g-gain! D'rrath-ther ca-crawl fffor-ev-er!"  
  
"We told him you'd say that," Jack remarked with an expressive gesture. "But he told us to make the offer."  
  
"Wwwelll, yyyoou did," Gary replied. "Ssssthanks, mmbut nnno sssthanks."  
  
"So, how's the therapy going?" Daniel asked, gesturing at the now empty room.  
  
"Ssslow," Gary sighed. "Vvvery sssslllow. Wawon't mmmbe wwwalk-ing whhhen . . . g-go hhhome."  
  
"Bummer," O'Neill sighed. "Sure you don't wanna take us up on our offer?"  
  
The look Gary gave him said more than his mouth ever could.  
  
*******************  
  
The day finally came when Gary was well enough to leave the hospital. He still had a long way to go with both kinds of therapy, but his strength had returned and he was able to get around as well, now, as he had before his recent illness. In fact, he had even managed to stand for a few minutes, with the aid of crutches, although he had yet to take his first step. 'Soon,' he thought to himself as he was wheeled out to Chuck's car. 'Real soon, now.'  
  
Arriving home, Chuck pulled up into his driveway and helped Gary from the car and into his chair. Puzzled, Gary looked around at several other cars and a couple of vans that crowded the long, brick path to the garage. 'Oh, God!' he sighed. 'Please don't let it be another 'Surprise' party!'   
  
To his relief, no one jumped out and yelled anything, but Gary was surprised nonetheless. The house was pretty crowded with people he knew, several he didn't, and two he had not expected to see.  
  
"G-gen-ral?" he stammered. "T-t-teal'ck? Wh-when . . . wh-wh-what?"  
  
"We couldn't let you fly back home without a proper sendoff, son," the officer grinned. "Dr. Fraiser said it was touch and go there for a while. How do you feel?"  
  
"N-n-nervous," Gary admitted truthfully. "L-lllastt fflight w-w-was . . . e-ventt-ful."  
  
"A classic understatement," Teal'c intoned. He had a California Angels' cap pulled down low enough to cover his 'tattoo.' "Would you prefer an escort on your journey home?"  
  
"Th-th-thank yyou, T-t-teal'ck," Gary smiled, "mmmbbbut . . . nnoo. Mmmomm 'n' Ch-uck g-g-go-ing wwwith mmme." He looked around at the other partygoers, picking out people he knew from the ones who were total strangers. He gestured at several people in wheelchairs who were laughing and talking with the people he knew from the camp. "Whhoo aarre th-ey?"  
  
Hammond looked at the group and shrugged his shoulders. "They're from your camp," he said. "I haven't been introduced to any of them, yet."  
  
"Gary! It's about time!"  
  
Gary pivoted his chair to see Crystal bearing down on him with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. The pretty blonde actress smiled as she held the tray out to the three men.  
  
"You look so much better than the last time I saw you," Crystal told the young restaurateur. "I came to see you when you were still in the unit. I meant to go back, but my agent called and I had to audition for this commercial deal." Her smile faded as she bit her lip in an expression of mild uncertainty. "Are you still angry at me?" she asked. "About that thing at dinner that night, I mean."  
  
"Nn-nnoo," Gary shook his head, flashing her a bemused grin. "Sshhould I mmbe?"  
  
"I guess not," she replied with a relieved smile.   
  
"Did you get the part?" Hammond asked as he helped himself to a few appetizers.  
  
"No," Crystal sighed. "My agent suggested I try getting a little more experience," she told them dejectedly. "Now, how am I supposed to get experience without a job?"  
  
"A-aama-teur p-plays?" was Gary's tentative suggestion.   
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Ffind a-am . . ." Frustrated by his halting speech, Gary looked to the general for help.  
  
"I think he means you should look for amateur productions," the officer smiled. "Little Theater, actor's workshop, summer stock, that sort of thing. There's always something like that going on somewhere."  
  
The young actress got a thoughtful look on her face as she considered the suggestion. Before she could say anything, Gary found himself surrounded by a double ring of wheelchairs. Bill and Doug quickly introduced him to the 'seniors' who had finally returned from their camping trip. They had been curious to meet the 'hero' who had saved Jean. One of them, a ten-year old boy, gave him a derisive sneer.  
  
"You don't look like a hero," he grumbled. "And you talk funny."  
  
Gary just shrugged and looked down at his hands. It was difficult to talk and it was very embarrassing.  
  
"That wasn't nice," a young Hispanic male said from behind the boy. "Apologize, David."  
  
"Why?" David asked petulantly. "He does talk funny."  
  
"David," the young man said in a warning tone.  
  
"Sssokay," Gary spoke up with a lopsided grin. "Hhheess . . . rrright. I-I-I've mmbeen . . . ill," he told the boy. Looking up at the stranger, he added, "Dddon't . . . knnoww . . . yyyoou."  
  
"I'm Raphael," the young man replied, extending his hand. "I've heard a lot about you, Gary. Andrew and Monica say you've got 'heart.'"  
  
"Mmmay-be," the young Guardian sighed. "Llluck . . . ssstinks . . . zzztho."  
  
Even David got a chuckle out of that. After a few more minutes of 'small talk,' during which Gary spoke as little as possible, he turned at a hail from across the room. Dr. Sloan and his son waved at him as they wound their way through the crowded room.   
  
"You look a little tired," Dr. Sloan observed. "Are you feeling alright?"  
  
"Oook-ay," Gary replied. "Jjjjuust . . . hhhaard t-t-to . . . t-talk."  
  
"No progress with the therapy, hmm?" the physician shook his head sadly. "Give it time, Gary. With everything you've been through, it may take a lot of time."  
  
"I've been in touch with a Detective Armstrong," Steve spoke up before Gary could formulate an answer. "He curious to know if we found out how you do . . . whatever it is you do. Care to elaborate?"  
  
"Nn-nn-noo," Gary replied haltingly. "Tt-tt-take . . . tt-ttoo . . . llllong," he added with a shake of his head.  
  
"Um, you're probably right," Steve admitted. "Have you considered sign language?"  
  
"Steve!"   
  
"Just a suggestion, Dad," the detective grinned. "It has to be less painful than what he's going through now."  
  
No one noticed Crystal's reaction as she paused nearby with another tray of appetizers. The pretty blonde actress turned her head to eye Gary with a speculative gaze. An idea was forming in her head that could prove beneficial to both of them. She knew American Sign Language and there were Little Theater groups in Chicago, weren't there?  
  
Dr. Sloan shot his son a withering look before turning back to his former patient. "Don't listen to him, Gary," he advised the red-faced younger man. "You stick with that therapy. You will talk normally again. Just . . . don't give up."  
  
Again, that phrase set bells to ringing in the vaults of Gary's subconscious. Why did it seem . . . so important?   
  
"Hobson!"  
  
Gary turned to see Jack O'Neill and Samantha Carter bearing down on him. Sam was giggling at something the colonel whispered in her ear. Judging by how red her face turned, Gary had an idea the subject had nothing to do with military protocol.  
  
"Where you off to next, hotshot?" O'Neill asked as he sauntered up to the tiny group. "Back home to the Windy City?"  
  
"O-on . . . nnnnext . . . p-p-plllane . . . out," Gary stammered. "To-to-to-mor-row nnnight."  
  
"So soon?" Sam asked, surprised. "According to Jade, all you've seen are marine parks. What about Disneyland, or Palisades Park? Or the studio tours. There's so much to see out here."  
  
"Sam's right," Jack agreed. "What's the rush to get back? Homesick?"  
  
"V-v-v-ve-ry," Gary replied. "G-got . . . re-sssponss-si-mmbil-i-ties. Mmmbeenn . . . gggone . . . t-too . . . lllong-g."  
  
"Well, we just wanted you to know that, if you ever need our help," General Hammond spoke up from behind him, "we still owe you a favor or two. Feel free to call on us if the occasion ever arises." The senior officer held out his hand. "Good luck, son."  
  
Gary took the hand in a firm grasp. "Thththankss," Gary smiled. "Aaah'mm . . . g-g-gonna . . . nnnneed . . . it."  
  
**************  
  
The next evening, Jade and Crystal were saying their farewells to the departing trio in the airport concourse. Chuck had decided to accompany his friend back home. Their bags were already being loaded on the plane. All they had to do now was convince Gary to turn lose of his namesake.  
  
Gary jiggled the baby in his arms as he made faces at the softly cooing infant. His mom had baby Alex giggling in her stroller just a few feet away. Gazing into that chubby, smiling face, Gary was, again, struck by a feeling of envy at his friend's good fortune. Who could ever have figured Chuck would one day have everything that Gary had ever wished for?   
  
Sometimes, life just wasn't fair.  
  
"We really have to go now, Gary," his mom said as she straightened up. With a wistful sigh, she gazed at the closest she would probably ever come to a granddaughter. "They just announced our flight a second ago."  
  
"Shhhure, Mmmmom," Gary sighed. He looked up to see a flight attendant headed their way. Reluctantly, he handed the baby to Jade. "Lllooks llike . . . esss-cortt."  
  
"Mr. Hobson?" the pretty redhead asked.  
  
"G-guil-ty," he replied.  
  
"I've been asked to tell you that your party has been upgraded to 'first-class.' If you'll allow me," she added, "I'll take you to your seats."  
  
Puzzled, Gary let her take the handlebars of his chair. As she wheeled him away, he turned his head for one more look at the two women and their tiny charges. He was already missing his godchildren.   
  
"Whh-why zzzthe sssspe-sssial . . . trrreat-mmmentt?" Gary asked.  
  
"Yeah," Chuck wondered. "I didn't think the airlines did things like that anymore."  
  
The attendant just smiled. "I wouldn't know about that, sir," she replied. "Perhaps the captain will have a chance to explain."  
  
The trio was soon made comfortable in the first-class lounge at Gary's stammered request. He still didn't feel very comfortable among other people, especially strangers. His mom and Chuck made small talk, trying to draw him into talking. They met with limited success as he mostly responded in mumbled monosyllables.   
  
After they had been airborne for a half-hour or so, the attendant returned to see if they needed anything. She was closely followed by another uniformed figure.  
  
"Captain Bailey!" Lois exclaimed. "How nice to see you! Are you the pilot?"  
  
"No, Ma'am," he replied, smiling as he took a seat near Gary. "I'm 'deadheading' home for my vacation. When I heard you were aboard," he added, addressing Gary, "I decided to come up and see how you were doing?"  
  
"Fffine," Gary murmured. "Sssoo, yyyou . . . ?" He waved a hand in a questioning gesture which encompassed the lounge.  
  
"Not me," the pilot admitted. "Not this time."  
  
"Then who did?" Lois asked, puzzled.  
  
"The owner and president of the airline," was the surprising answer. "His sister is married to a guy name Phillips," Bailey continued, grinning.  
  
"H-har-old . . . Phhhil-llipss?" Gary stammered. "Jj-Jean . . . isss . . . nnniece?"  
  
Bailey gave the stuttering man a puzzled look.  
  
"I think what Gary is trying to ask," Lois spoke up for her son, "is Jean Phillips' uncle the owner of this airline?"  
  
"Yes, and he loves her to death," Bailey nodded. "He found out I know you, so he asked me to pass on the message that you will never fly anything less than first-class on this airline. That includes anyone who is flying with you at the time."  
  
"Wow, Gar!" Chuck exclaimed in a hushed whisper. "Even the President doesn't rate that kinda treatment!"  
  
"The President didn't hang off the side of a two-hundred foot cliff," Bailey commented dryly, "with a vein full of rattlesnake venom, to save the life of a girl he knew less than a week. Or stay by the side of a child he didn't know at all, to make sure the doctors didn't overlook a life threatening injury. The President puts his career on the line to run the country and make decisions that affect the way the world runs. You save lives, Gary. One life or a hundred. It's all the same to you. That's what sets you apart from everyone else. What makes you special."  
  
"Dddon't fffeeell . . . ssspesh-shal," Gary murmured, his face taking on a brilliant shade of scarlet. "Ffffeeelll . . .uuunnn-llluck-ky."  
  
"I can only hope that the rewards waiting for you in heaven are worth what you've gone through on earth," Lois told her son.  
  
"Amen to that," Bailey sighed, rising to his feet. "Well, I have friends waiting for me down below, but I'll probably see you before we land. Good-day, and good-luck."  
  
They bid him a good flight as he exited the lounge. They never knew that the moment 'Captain Bailey' descended the stairway he changed, becoming another person entirely. It was the camp counselor, Andrew, who reached the bottom step. Shaking his head sadly, he wondered if Gary Hobson would ever feel good about himself again.  
  
********************  
  
"Nervous, hon?" Lois asked her fidgety son. The two of them were seated in the first-class lounge of the jet liner that was flying them home. She looked over at Gary who was tapping the right arm of his chair in a rapid tattoo.   
  
"Llit-tle," Gary admitted. "Ah ww-wan-ted . . . t-t-to . . . wwalk o-off . . . p-p-pllanne."  
  
"I know you did, dear," Lois sighed. "But your legs just aren't strong enough yet. You were barely able to stand in your last therapy session. That nice young lady said you're trying to rush things. You have to learn to crawl before you can walk. Just like a baby."  
  
"Nnnnott mmba-by, Mmmom," Gary protested. "T-t-tired ovvvv c-c-craw-ling. Wwwwant . . . tttoo . . . wwwalk. Jjjust . . . tttwoo ssstt-epss!"  
  
At that moment Chuck returned from the washroom. He sat down next to Lois just as the 'Fasten Seatbelts' sign came on.  
  
"The flight attendant said we got in just before the flight of some political bigwig," he told his friends. "We'll be touching down in just a few minutes. You doing okay, pal?"  
  
"D-d-dan-d-dy," Gary grumbled.  
  
****************  
  
Miguel Diaz was among the crowd of reporters waiting at the gate for the senator's plane to land. He was idly snapping a few 'background' shots when he spotted a familiar face from across the concourse.   
  
"Mr. Hobson?" He took a few steps closer. Sure enough, it was Gary's father. 'Who was he here to greet?' he wondered. 'And there was Marissa Clark, Zeke Crumb, and . . . OhmiGod!' Brigatti, Winslow, and even Armstrong had just joined the little group! What was going on?  
  
Then he saw three equally familiar faces in the crowd coming off the flight that had just landed. With a big grin, he turned to one of the TV reporters.  
  
"Hey," he hissed. "You want a story with a little more local color to go with this fluff piece on some politician?"  
  
"Whatcha got in mind, Diaz?" the woman asked.  
  
"Remember the guy who saved the kid from freezing last Christmas?" he asked, pointing toward the loading/unloading area. "The same guy who was up to his neck in that 'Scanlon' mess."  
  
She most certainly did remember, hurriedly telling her cameraman to focus in on the wheelchair bound man rolling into the gate area. She was already preparing a quick comment on the return of a local hero, when she saw a uniformed figure step up next to the handsome young man. To her bewilderment, he offered the man in the wheelchair a pair of wooden crutches. At first, the young man, whom she belatedly recalled was named Hobson, seemed as confused as she felt. Then a slow smile spread across his face.  
  
*******************  
  
Gary looked up into the face that he expected to belong to Captain Bailey. Instead, he found himself staring into the smiling face and hazel eyes of the enigmatic man he had come to know as Andrew. The sandy haired man was holding out a pair of wooden crutches. The name and emblem of 'Hickory General Hospital' was clearly emblazoned down each side. Stunned, Gary recognized them as the same pair that had followed him on his trip back in time. The pair that he had used to foil Marley's attempt to kill and discredit Lucius Snow during that fateful day in Dallas, in 1963.  
  
Dazed, Gary had no idea, at first, what Andrew expected him to do with them. Then a slow smile spread across his weary features as he understood. Reaching down, he quickly engaged the brakes on his wheelchair. He then grasped each leg, one at a time, and moved them off the pedals before flipping them out of his way. With the aid of his mom and best friend, Chuck, he pushed himself to his feet and positioned the props under his arms. Mindful of his dad and several of his friends, especially Marissa, standing less then ten feet away, he concentrated on his right leg. At first it seemed as if nothing was going to happen. Taking his lower lip between his even white teeth, Gary poured all his will into the simple act of moving that one foot just a few inches. Sweat beaded his brow as he felt that leg tremble slightly. Then, to his overwhelming joy and relief, it slowly inched forward!   
  
Almost dizzy with a sense of elation, Gary nonetheless kept his mind focused on his Herculean task. His job was only half done. Keeping most of his weight on the crutches, he began to slide the left foot forward with just as much effort as it had taken for the right. It hurt! Oh, God, it hurt! Muscles that had only recently relearned to move of their own accord protested at being forced to exert themselves. Knees that had not had to bear weight for more than seven months threatened to buckle as he forced them to support him for just two more awkward steps!  
  
  
********************  
  
'This is incredible!' the reporter thought. 'Things like this don't happen in real-life!'  
  
She watched as, propping himself on the crutches, Hobson bit down on his lower lip with an expression of hope and determination. Her breath caught in her throat as his right leg trembled slightly then, with excruciating slowness, inched forward. Even from where she stood, the newscaster could see the sweat standing out on his forehead as he put just as much effort into shifting the other leg. He reminded her of nothing so much as a newborn colt trying out its legs for the first time. Her coming interview with the dignitary, who's plane was disembarking at that very moment, was suddenly paled by comparison to this incredible scene. As they all watched with bated breath, the young man took two more laborious steps before, exhausted, he had to be helped into the wheelchair the woman slid up behind him.  
  
Her carefully planned speech flew right out the window as she watched Gary Hobson's family and friends gather around him in tearful exuberance. They began pummeling his shoulders and hugging his neck as he settled back with a weary sigh. She gazed into his smiling face and said the only thing that could fit this occasion. The very same thing that every other newsperson present was preparing to say at that exact moment.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen," she murmured into her microphone, "we have just witnessed a miracle!"  
  
**fin…… for now**  
  
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